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THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 


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THE    SEINE    FROM    THE    LOUVRE 


THE 

CHARM    OF    PARIS 

AN    ANTHOLOGY 

COMPILED  BY  ALFRED  H.  HYATT 

WITH   12  ILLUSTRATIONS   BY   HARRY   IMORLEY 


r 


PH1LADLLPHL\ 
GEORGE  W.  JACOBS  &  CO. 

i'L'BLlSHEKS 


Printed  in-  England 


EDITOR'S    NOTE 

It   is   believed  that  the  principle    upon  which   this 

selection  has  been  made  will  give  it  an  original  value 

even  to  those  to  whom  the  passages  chosen  are  already 

familiar.      The    editor's   desire    has   been    to   bring 

together   quotations   which,    grouped    into    various 

clearly-limited  sections,  will  recall  to  English  readers 

the  aspect  of  Parisian  streets  and  notable  buildings, 

together  with  signiticant  phases  of  Parisian  life  and 

character. 

A.  H.  H. 

To  the  present  edition  have  been  added  twelve 
illustrations  after  the  water-colour  drawings  of  Mr. 
Hakrv  Mokley. 

February  1913. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

The  following  copyright  poems  and  prose  extracts 
are  included  by  courteous  permission  of  the  pubUshers 
and  authors  of  the  same,  to  whom  the  editor  desires  to 
tender  his  thanks  :  To  the  Walter  Scott  PubUshing 
Company,  Ltd..  for  extracts  from  Isabel  F.  Hap- 
good's  translation  of  Victor  Hugo's  '  Les  j\Iiserables  '; 
to  Mr.  Henry  James  for  an  extract  from  '  The  Prin- 
cess Casamassima  '  (Messrs.  Macmillan  and  Co.,  Ltd.)  ; 
to  Mr.  Andrew  Lang  and  Messrs.  Longmans,  Green 
and  Co.  for  a  poem  from  '  Ballads  and  Lyrics  of  Old 
France  ';  to  Messrs.  Hutchinson  and  Co.  for  extracts 
from  fimile  Zola's  '  A  Love  Episode  ';  to  Mr.  Richard 
Whiteing  and  Mr.  A.  H.  Hallam  Murray  for  an  extract 
from  '  The  Life  of  Paris  ';  to  ]\Ir.  Hilaire  Belloc  for 
extiacts  from  his  volume  '  Paris '  (Messrs.  Methuen 
and  Co.)  ;  to  Mr.  Ashmore  Wingate  for  his  translation 
of  \'erlaine's  '  Parisian  Nocturne,'  from  '  Poems  of 
Paul  Verlaine'  (Scott's  'Canterbury  Poets'),  ana 
also  for  his  poem  '  Paris  :  A  Parisian's  Apology  '  ; 
to  Messrs.  Sampson  Low,  Marston  and  Co.,  Ltd.,  for 
extracts  from  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes's  '  One  Hun- 
dred Days  in  Europe  '  and  Alphonse  Daudet's  '  My 
Brother  Jack  ';  to  Mr.  C.  C.  Hoycr  Millar,  on  behalf 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Charm  of  Paris  i 

In  Praise  of  Paris  35 

The  Streets  of  Paris  67 

Some  Parisian  Phases  93 

Bohemian  Paris  167 

A  Few  Parisian  Portraits  187 

The  Seasons  in  Paris  213 

Portraits  of  Places  231 

The  Romance  of  Paris  285 

Paris  of  the  Past  329 

Index  ok  Authors  400 

Table  01-  Contents  401 


xiii 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

The  Seine  from  the  Louvre  Frontispiece 

Avenue  du  Bois  dk  Boulogne  To  face  page  i6 

QuAi  Aux  Fleurs  64 

Rue  de  la  Paix  78 

Terraces  at  Saint  Cloud  132 

QuARTiER  Place  Saint  Michel  170 

Saint  Etienne  du  Mont  250 

QuAi  Voltaire  268 

Montmartre  :  Rue  Lepic  276 

Paris  from  Notre  Dame  346 

In  the  Tuileries  Gardens  378 


THE    CHARM    OF    PARIS 


THE   CHARM    OF    PARIS 


Paris  beamed  upon  me  through  her  open  shop  windows  ; 
the  Odeon  itself  seemed  to  nod  affably  towards  me,  and  the 
white  marble  queens  in  the  gardens  of  the  Luxembourg  .  .  . 
appeared  to  bow  graciously  and  welcome  my  arrival. 

ALPHONSE    DAUDET. 

Paris  more  than  ever  strikes  me  as  the  handsomest  city  in 
the  world.  I  find  nothing  comparable  to  the  view  up  and 
down  the  river,  or  to  the  liveliness  of  its  streets.  At  night  the 
river  with  its  reflected  lights,  its  tiny  bateaux  mouches  with 
their  ferret  eyes,  creeping  stealthily  along  as  if  in  search  of 
prey,  and  the  dimly  outlined  masses  of  building  that  wall  it 
in,  gives  me  endless  pleasure.  I  am  as  fond  as  ever  of  the 
perpetual  torchlight  procession  of  the  avenue  of  the  Champs 
£lysies  in  the  evening,  and  the  cafis  chant  ants  are  more  like 
the  Arabian  Nights  than  ever. 

JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL. 

What  point  of  Paris  is  dull  to  look  at  ?  Where  are  the 
shop-fronts  that  do  not  fascinate  ?  .  .  .  Glance  down  the 
sudden  break  in  the  street,  where  a  kind  of  tall  walled  terrace 
runs,  trellised,  rich  in  leafage,  as  silent  as  the  street  of  a 
dead  city,  where  wealth  shelters  itself  from  envy  by  its  tone 
of  subdued  and  sober  elegance.  And  yet  it  is  not  more  trim 
than  are  the  haunts  of  commerce,  the  abodes  of  labour.  Wlio 
would  not  envy  the  flower-women  of  the  Quai  des  Fleurs,  with 
their  glorious  vista  of  stone  and  waterways  ?  The  curving 
Seine,  ribboned  round  its  beautiful  old  island,  grey-walled, 
upon  the  river's  brink  ;  the  spire  of  the  Sainte  Chapelle, 
painted  gold,  upon  a  soft  or  brilliant  sky,  and  the  magnificent 
gates  of  the  Palace  of  Justice,  as  much  theirs  as  are  the  rich 
man's  priceless  possessions  in  his  own  house. 

HANNAH  LYNCH. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  PARIS 

When  a  man  looks  eastward  from  the  western 
heights  that  dominate  the  city,  especially  from  that 
great  hill  of  Valerian  (round  which  so  many  memories 
from  Ste.  Genevieve  to  the  last  war  accumulate),  a 
sight  presents  itself.  .  .  . 

Let  us  suppose  an  autumn  day,  clear,  with  wind 
following  rain,  and  with  a  grey  sky  of  rapid  clouds 
against  which  the  picture  may  be  set.  In  such 
weather  and  from  such  a  spot  the  whole  of  the  vast 
town  lies  clearly  before  you,  and  the  impression  is  one 
that  you  will  not  match  nor  approach  in  any  of  the 
views  that  have  grown  famous  ;  for  what  you  see  is 
unique  in  something  that  is  neither  the  north  nor  the 
south;  something  which  contains  little  of  scenic  interest 
and  nothing  of  dramatic  grandeur  ;  men  have  forborne 
to  describe  it  because  they  have  known  Paris  well  enough 
to  comprehend  that  horizon ;  .  .  .  her  people,  her 
history,  her  life  from  within,  have  mastered  every 
other  interest  and  have  occupied  all  their  powers.  .  .  . 

There  hcs  at  your  feet — its  fortifications  some  two 
miles  away — a  great  plain  of  houses.  Its  inequalities 
are  lost  in  the  superior  height  from  which  you  gaze, 
save  where  in  the  north  the  isolated  summit  of  Mont- 
martre,  with  the  great  mass  of  its  half-finished  church, 
looks  over  the  city  and  answers  the  hill  of  Valerian. 

The  plain  of  houses  fills  the  eye  and  the  mind, 
yet  it  is  not  so  vast  but  that,  dimly,  on  the  cleai^est 
days,  the  heights  beyond  it  to  the  east  can  be  just 

T — 2 


4  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

perceived,  while  to  the  north  the  suburbs  and  the 
open  country  appear,  and  to  the  south  the  hills. 
Whiter  than  are  the  northern  towns  of  Europe,  yet 
standing  under  a  northern  sky,  it  strikes  with  the 
force  of  sharp  contrast,  and  half  explains  in  that 
one  feature  its  Latin  origin  and  destiny.  It  is  veiled 
by  no  cloud  of  smoke,  for  industry,  and  more 
especially  the  industry  of  our  day,  has  not  been  the 
motive  of  its  growth.  The  fantastic  and  even 
grandiose  effects  which  are  the  joy  of  London  will 
never  be  discovered  here.  It  does  not  fill  by  a  kind 
of  gravitation  this  or  that  group  of  arteries  ;  it  forms 
no  line  along  the  water-course  nor  does  it  lose  itself 
in  those  vague  contours  which,  in  a  merely  mercantile 
city,  the  necessity  of  exchange  frequently  deter- 
mines ;  for  Paris  was  not  made  by  commerce,  nor 
will  any  theory  of  material  conditions  and  environ- 
ment read  you  the  riddle  of  its  growth  and  form.  It 
is  not  the  mind  of  the  onlooker  that  lends  it  unity, 
nor  the  emotions  of  travel  that  make  it,  for  those  who 
see  it  thus,  one  thing.  Paris,  as  it  lies  before  you 
beneath  the  old  hills  that  have  watched  it  for  two 
thousand  years,  has  the  effect  and  character  of 
personal  hfe.  Not  in  a  metaphor,  nor  for  the  sake 
of  phrasing,  but  in  fact ;  as  truly  as  in  the  case  of 
Rome,  though  in  a  manner  less  familiar,  a  separate 
existence  \\dth  a  soul  of  its  own  appeals  to  you.  Its 
voice  is  no  reflection  of  your  own  mind ;  on  the 
contrary,  it  is  a  troubling  thing,  like  an  insistent 
demand  spoken  in  a  foreign  tongue.  Its  corporate 
life  is  not  an  abstraction  drawn  from  books  or  from 
words  one  may  have  heard.  There,  visibly  before 
you,  is  the  compound  of  the  modern  and  the  middle 
ages,  whose  unity  convinces  merely  by  being  seen. 


THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS  5 

And,  above  all,  this  thing  upon  which  3'ou  are 
looking  is  alive.  It  needs  no  recollection  of  what 
has  been  taught  in  youth,  nor  any  of  those 
reveries  which  arise  at  the  identification  of  things 
seen  with  names  remembered.  The  antiquarian 
passion,  in  its  best  form  pedantic  and  in  its  worst 
maudhn.  finds  httle  room  in  the  first  aspect  of  Paris. 
Later,  it  takes  its  proper  rank  in  all  the  mass  of 
what  we  may  learn,  but  the  town,  as  you  see  it,  re- 
calls history  only  by  speaking  to  you  in  a  living 
voice.  Its  past  is  still  alive,  because  the  city  is  still 
instinct  with  a  vigorous  growth,  and  you  feel  with 
regard  to  Paris  what  you  would  feel  with  regard  to  a 
young  man  fuU  of  adventures  :  not  at  all  the  quiet 
interest  which  lies  in  the  recollections  of  age  ;  still 
less  that  happy  memory  of  things  dead  which  is  a 
fortune  for  so  many  of  the  most  famous  cities  of  the 
world. 

Whence  proceeds  this  impression,  and  what  is  the 
secret  of  its  origin  ?  Why,  that  in  all  this  immense 
extent  an  obvious  unity  of  design  appears ;  not  in 
one  quarter  alone,  but  over  the  whole  circumference, 
stand  the  evidences  of  this  creative  spirit.  It  is  not 
the  rich,  building  for  themselves  in  their  own  quarter, 
nor  the  officials,  concentrating  the  common  wealth 
upon  their  own  buildings  ;  it  is  Paris,  creating  and 
recreating  her  own  adornment,  realizing  her  own 
dreams  upon  every  side,  insisting  on  her  own  vagaries, 
committing  foUies  which  are  her  own  and  not  that 
of  a  section  of  her  people,  even  here  and  there  chisel- 
Ung  out  sometliing  as  durable  as  Europe.  .  .  . 

It  will  repay  one  well  to  look,  on  this  clear  day, 
and  to  strain  the  eyes  in  watching  that  hummock — a 
grey  and  confused  mass  of  houses  on  .  .   .  its  summit. 


6  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

A  lump,  a  little  higher  than  the  rest,  half-way  up  the 
hill,  is  the  Sorbonne  ;  upon  the  slopes  towards  us  two 
unequal  square  towers  mark  St.  Sulpice — a  heap  of 
stones.  Yet  aU  this  confusion  of  unlovely  things, 
which  the  distance  turns  into  a  blotch  wherein  the 
Pantheon  alone  can  be  distinguished,  is  a  very  note- 
worthy square  mile  of  ground ;  for  at  its  foot  Juhan 
the  Apostate  held  his  Uttle  pagan  circle ;  at  its 
summit  are  the  relics  of  Ste.  Gene'iieve.  Here 
Abelard  awoke  the  '  great  curiosity '  from  its  long 
sleep,  and  here  St.  Bernard  answered  him  in  the 
name  of  all  the  mystics.  Here  Dante  studied,  here 
Innocent  III.  was  formed,  and  here  Calvin  the  Picard 
preached  his  Batavian  theory.  .  .  . 

Whenever  we  think  of  the  city,  we  do  well  to 
remember  IVIirabeau  :  '  Paris  is  a  Sphinx  ;  I  will  drag 
her  secret  from  her ;'  but  in  this  neither  he  nor 
any  other  man  has  succeeded. 

HILAIRE    BELLOC. 

MAGNIFICENT  PARIS 

The  Boulevard  was  all  alive,  brilliant  with  illumina- 
tions, with  the  variety  and  gaiety  of  the  crowd,  the 
dazzle  of  shops  and  cafes  seen  through  uncovered 
fronts  or  immense  lucid  plates,  the  flamboyant 
porches  of  theatres  and  the  flashing  lamps  of  carriages, 
the  far-spreading  murmur  of  talkers  and  strollers, 
the  uproar  of  pleasure  and  prosperity,  the  general 
magnificence  of  Paris  on  a  perfect  evening  in  June, 
Hyacinth  had  been  walking  about  all  day — he  had 
walked  from  rising  till  bedtime  every  day  of  the 
week  spent  since  his  arrival — and  now  an  extra- 
ordinary fatigue,  a  tremendous  lassitude  had  fallen 


THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS  7 

upon  him,  which,  however,  was  not  without  its 
delight  of  sweet  satiety,  and  he  settled  himself  in  a 
chair  beside  a  little  table  in  front  of  Tortoni's  not 
so  much  to  rest  from  it  as  to  enjoy  it.  He  had  seen 
so  much,  felt  so  much,  learnt  so  much,  thrilled  and 
throbbed  and  laughed  and  sighed  so  much  during 
the  past  several  days  that  he  was  conscious  at  last  of 
the  danger  of  becoming  incoherent  to  himself  and  of 
the  need  of  balancing  his  accounts.  ...  He  had 
been  intending  to  visit  the  Varietes  Theatre,  which 
blazed  through  intermediate  hghts  and  through  the 
thin  foliage  of  trees  not  favoured  by  the  asphalt,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  great  avenue.  But  the  im- 
pression of  Chaumont — he  relinquished  that  for  the 
present ;  it  added  to  the  luxury  of  his  situation  to 
reflect  that  he  should  still  have  plenty  of  time  to  see 
the  succes  du  jour.  The  same  effect  proceeded  from 
his  determination  to  order  a  marquise  when  the 
waiter,  whose  superior  shirt-front  and  whisker 
emerged  from  the  long  white  cylinder  of  an  apron, 
came  to  take  his  commands.  .  .  .  The  waiter 
brought  (him)  a  tall  glass  of  champagne  in  M'hich  a 
pineapple  ice  was  in  solution,  and  our  hero  felt  he 
had  hoped  for  a  sensation  no  less  intense  in  looking 
for  an  empty  table  on  Tortoni's  terrace.  Very  few 
tables  were  empty,  and  it  was  his  belief  that  the  others 
were  occupied  by  high  celebrities  ;  at  any  rate  they 
were  just  the  types  he  had  had  a  prevision  of  and 
had  wanted  most  to  meet  when  the  extraordinary 
opportunity  to  come  abroad  with  his  pockets  full  of 
money  .  .  .  turned  real  to  him  in  Lomax  Place. 
He  knew  about  Tortoni's  from  his  study  of  the  French 
novel,  and  as  he  sat  there  he  had  a  vague  sense  of 
fraternizing  with  Balzac  and  Alfred  de  Musset :  there 


8  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

were  echoes  and  reminiscences  of  their  works  in  the 
air,  all  confounded  with  the  indefinable  exhalations, 
the  strange  composite  odour,  half  agreeable,  half 
impure,  of  the  Boulevard.  '  Splendid  Paris,  charm- 
ing Paris  ' — that  refrain,  the  fragment  of  an  invoca- 
tion, a  beginning  without  an  end,  hummed  itself 
perpetually  in  (his)  ears  ;  the  only  articulate  words 
that  got  themselves  uttered  in  the  hymn  of  praise 
his  imagination  had  been  addressing  to  the  French 
capital  from  the  first  hour  of  his  stay.  He  recog- 
nized, he  greeted  with  a  thousand  palpitations,  the 
seat  of  his  maternal  ancestors — was  proud  to  be 
associated  with  so  much  of  the  superb,  so  many 
proofs  of  a  civilization  that  had  no  visible  rough 
spots.  He  had  his  perplexities  and  even  now  and 
then  a  revulsion  for  which  he  had  made  no  allowance, 
as  when  it  came  over  him  that  the  most  brilliant  city 
in  the  world  was  also  the  most  blood-stained ;  but 
the  great  sense  that  he  understood  and  sympathized 
was  preponderant,  and  his  comprehension  gave  him 
wings — appeared  to  transport  him  to  still  wider  fields 
of  knowledge,  still  higher  sensations.  .  .  .  Wonder- 
ing repeatedly  where  the  barricade  on  which  his 
grandfather  must  have  fallen  had  been  erected,  he 
at  last  satisfied  himself  .  .  .  that  it  had  bristled 
across  the  Rue  Saint-Honore  very  near  to  the  Church 
of  Saint-Roch.  The  pair  had  now  roamed  together 
through  aD  the  museums  and  gardens,  through  the 
principal  churches — the  repubhcan  martyr  was  very 
good-natured  about  this  ;  through  the  passages  and 
arcades,  up  and  down  the  great  avenues,  across  all 
the  bridges  and  above  all  again  and  again  along  the 
river,  where  the  quays  were  an  endless  entertainment 
to  Hyacinth,  who  lingered  by  the  half-hour  beside 


THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS  9 

the  boxes  of  old  books  on  the  parapets,  stuffing  his 
pockets  with  fivepenny  volumes  while  the  bright 
industries  of  the  Seine  flashed  and  glittered  beneath 
him  and  on  the  other  bank  the  glorious  Louvre 
stretched  either  way  for  a  league.  Our  young  man 
took  the  same  satisfaction  in  the  Louvre  as  if  he  had 
been  invited  there  .  .  .  ;  he  haunted  the  museum 
during  all  the  first  days,  couldn't  look  enough  at 
certain  pictures  nor  sufficiently  admire  the  high 
polish  of  the  great  floors  in  which  the  golden  frescoed 
ceilings  repeated  themselves.  All  Paris  struck  him 
as  tremendously  artistic  and  decorative  ;  he  felt  as 
if  hitherto  he  had  lived  in  a  dusky  frowsy  Philistine 
world,  a  world  in  which  the  taste  was  the  taste  of 
Little  Peddlington  and  the  idea  of  beautiful  arrange- 
ment had  never  had  an  influence.  In  his  ancestral 
city  it  had  been  active  from  the  first,  and  that  was 
why  his  quick  sensibiHty  responded  and  why  he  mur- 
mured his  constant  refrain  whenever  the  fairness  of 
the  great  monuments  arrested  liim  in  the  pearly 
silvery  hght  or  he  saw  them  take  grey-blue  delicate 
tones  at  the  end  of  stately  vistas.  It  seemed  to  him 
the  place  expressed  herself,  and  did  it  in  the  grand 
style,  while  London  remained  vague  and  blurred,  in- 
articulate, blunt  and  dim.  Splendid  Paris,  charm- 
ing Paris  indeed  ! 

HENRY    J.\MES. 

P.\RIS 

My  Paris  is  a  land  where  twilight  days 
Merge  into  violent  nights  of  black  and  gold  ; 
Where,  it  may  be,  the  flower  of  dawn  is  cold  : 
Ah,  but  the  gold  nights,  and  the  scented  wa3S  ! 


10  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

Eyelids  of  women,  little  curls  of  hair, 

A  little  nose  curved  softly,  like  a  shell, 

A  red  mouth  like  a  wound,  a  mocking  veil : 

Phantoms,  before  the  dawn,  how  phantom- fair  ! 

And  ever}^  woman  with  beseeching  eyes, 
Or  \\dth  enticing  eyes,  or  amorous. 
Offers  herself,  a  rose,  and  craves  of  us 
A  rose's  place  among  our  memories. 

ARTHUR   SYMONS. 

INCOMPARABLE  PARIS 
I  CAN  never  mutinie  so  much  against  France  but  I 
must  needes  looke  on  Paris  with  a  favourable  eye  :  it 
hath  my  hart  from  my  infancy  ;  whereof  it  hath 
befalne  me,  as  of  excellent  things,  the  more  other 
faire  and  stately  cities  I  have  seene  since,  the  more 
hir  beauty  hath  power  and  doth  still  usurpingly  gaine 
upon  mj^  affections.  I  love  that  citie  for  her  owne 
sake,  and  more  in  hir  only  subsisting  and  owne  being, 
than  when  it  is  full  fraught  and  embelUshed  with 
forraine  pompe  and  borrowed  garish  ornaments.  I 
love  hir  so  tenderly  that  lur  spottes,  her  blemishes  and 
hir  warts  are  deare  unto  me.  I  am  no  perfect  French 
man  but  by  this  great  citie,  great  in  people,  greate  in 
regard  of  the  felicitie  of  hir  situation,  but  above  all, 
great  and  incomparable  in  varietie  and  diversitie  of 
commodities  ;  the  glory  of  France  and  one  of  the 
noblest  and  chiefe  ornaments  of  the  world.  God  of 
His  mercy  free  hir  and  chase  away  all  our  divisions 
from  hir.  So  long  as  she  shall  continue,  so  long  shall 
I  never  want  a  home  or  a  retreate  to  retire  to  and 
shiowd  my  self  e  at  all  times. 

MICHAEL  DE   MONTAIGNE. 


THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS  U 

YOUTH  ENTERING  PARIS 

A  New  City 

Paris  —  beautiful  Paris  —  with  its  theatres  and 
churches,  its  music  and  splendour  !  .  .  .  Ishmael 
stood  in  the  midst  of  the  great  city,  where  the  river 
flows  between  the  old  Palace  of  the  Medicis  and  the 
new  Palace  of  the  Legislature,  spanned  by  historic 
bridges,  darkened  by  the  shadows  of  liistoric  towers 
— a  river  whose  waters,  lapping  against  the  granite 
quay  with  a  httle  babbling  sound  like  the  prattle  of 
a  child,  could  tell  of  tragedy  and  comedy,  death,  sin, 
vice,  hate,  love,  mirth,  woe,  were  it  a  httle  more 
articulate — a  river  which,  to  the  mind  of  the  man  who 
knows  Paris,  does  recall  a  world  of  strange  and 
terrible  memories — a  river  which  has  run  with  blood 
in  the  days  that  are  gone.  ...  To  the  young  man 
from  the  green  hillside  across  the  quiet  Couesnon, 
Paris  to-night  seemed  altogether  a  strange  city.  He 
had  never  taken  kindly  to  the  long,  narrow  streets  of 
tall  houses,  or  even  to  the  glittering  boulevard  with 
its  formal  avenue  of  young  trees.  But  he  had  come  to 
Paris  for  a  purpose — come  to  win  his  independence, 
to  earn  freedom,  fearlessness,  and  the  right  to  hope. 
He  had  fed  for  the  last  year  or  so  upon  stories  of  men 
who  had  entered  Paris  shoeless,  shirtless,  carrying  a 
few  rags  in  an  old  cotton  handkercliief,  a  few  sous 
for  total  reserve  fund  against  starvation,  and  who, 
years  afterwards,  had  become  men  of  mark,  a  power 
in  the  city.  He  came  stuffed  to  the  brim  with  ambition  ; 
believing  in  himself,  without  conceit  or  arrogance,  but 
with  that  unquestionable  faith  in  his  own  force  and 
his  own  capacity  wliich  cannot  be  plucked  from  the 
breast  of  the  conqueror  elect  in  the  world's  strife.  .  .  . 


12  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

From  the  window  lamps  glimmered  here  and  there 
in  the  darkness  below.  He  saw  the  external  boulevard 
yonder — a  long  grey  line — and  beyond  lay  that 
dreary  border-land  of  waste  and  squalor  which  in 
those  days  stretched  between  the  outskirts  of  the 
town  and  the  fortifications — that  master-work  of  the 
Citizen  King's  reign — master-work  which  had  cost 
the  King  his  popularity.  It  was  a  dismal  quarter 
of  the  town.  Yonder,  folded  in  the  shadows  of 
night,  lay  the  cemetery  of  Montmartre,  the  field  of 
rest. 

The  Paris  of  to-day  was  a  vastly  different  place 
from  that  city  along  whose  dingy  quays  Ishmael  had 
looked  on  a  November  evening  in  the  year  1850. 
Seventeen  years  of  enterprise,  improvement,  vast 
expenditure,  had  made  the  old  city  into  a  new  city,  a 
place  of  boulevards  piercing  east  and  west,  and  north 
and  south ;  a  place  of  mighty  theatres,  and  newly- 
erected  churches  that  were  as  gaudy  in  colour  and 
gilding  as  a  mediaeval  chdsse  or  an  Indian  tomb  ;  a 
place  of  new  bridges,  rich  in  sculptured  emblems,  re- 
calHng  the  triumphs  of  French  arms  from  Jena  to 
Inkermann  ;  a  place  of  parks  and  palaces,  fountains 
and  gardens,  villas  and  avenues,  with  suburbs  stretch- 
ing far  and  wide,  dotted  about  with  those  Swiss  chalets, 
Norman  chateaux,  Italian  villas,  maisonettes  a  la 
moyen-dge,  a  la  Renaissance,  with  which  the  little  shop- 
keeper v/ho  has  saved  money  loves  to  disfigure  the 
landscape  around  Paris.  The  old  wish  of  the  Parisian 
bourgeoise  to  possess  a  gable  in  the  street  has  grown 
into  the  desire  for  a  house  and  gardens  at  Asnieres 
or  Bellevue. 

Opulence  and  luxury  were  the  leading  notes  of  the 


THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS  13 

Imperial  reign.    The  famous  Mr.  Spricht,  the  man- 
milliner  patronized  in  the  Tuileries,  had  built  himself 
a  palace  with  a  fortune  made  out  of  chiffons.     Every- 
where there  appeared  signs  of  universal  prosperity. 
Among  the  poorest  arrondissemcnts  of  the  city,  amidst 
the  vanishing  slums  of  old  Paris,  gardens  bloomed  and 
fountains  played,  as  in  an  Arabian  fairy-tale.     The 
enemies  of  the  Emperor  sneered  at  these  glimpses  of 
Eden  in  the  midst  of  squalor,   and  grumbled  that 
money  was  spent  upon  flowers  and  fountains  which 
ought  to  have  been  expended  on  free  schools  ;  but  in 
spite  of  these  malcontents,  Paris  throve  and  rejoiced 
in  the  sunshine.     Her  hospitals,  her  charities  of  all 
kinds,  had  attained  a  perfection  only  possible  in  a 
country  where  benevolence  has  been  made  a  science. 
Everywhere,  from  the  workman's  boulevards  yonder, 
Boulevard  Richard  Lenoir,  Boulevard  de  la  Villette, 
to  the  Italian  palace  of  painter  or  princess  newly 
risen  in  the  once  shabby  purlieus  of  the  Pare  Mon- 
ceaux — westward,  beyond  the  triumphal  gate,  where 
hills  had  been  levelled  and  old  streets  carted  away  to 
complete  the  Parisian's  paradise  of  avenues  and  villas, 
gardens,  shrubberies,  fish-ponds,  cascades  ;   eastward 
— southward — northward — everywhere  the  hand  of 
improvement  had  been  busy.     Spade  and  pickaxe, 
hammer  and  chisel,  had  created  a  new  Paris— a  Paris 
of   tall  white  palaces,  sculptured  pediments,  classic 
porticoes,  Corinthian  friezes,  caryatides,  ogee  mould- 
ings, brackets,  festoons  of  fruit  and  flowers,  repeating 
themselves  in   the  same   fresh  stonework   along   an 
endless    perspective — a    Paris    of    intolerably    long 
streets,  and  asphalte  pathways  that  burnt  the  feet 
of  the  weary — a  city  of  dissipation,  pleasure,  luxury, 
extravagance,  and  ruin — a  gulf  for  men's  fortunes, 


14  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

a  pest-house  for  men's  health,  a  grave  for  intellect, 
honour,  manhood,  religion — and  quite  the  most 
delightful  city  in  the  world. 

M.  E.  BRADDON. 


A  BALLADE  OF  PARIS  CAF^S 

Those  old-time  cafes,  where  are  they  ? 

Gone  hke  the  snow  of  yester  year  ! 
Yet  recollections  round  them  stray. 

And  memory  still  holds  them  dear. 

Where  are  the  friends  that,  too,  were  near  ? 
From  'neath  the  leafy  boulevard 

Those  cafes  all  have  passed  away  ; — 
To  sing  their  praise  where  is  the  bard  ? 

Though  others  tread  the  same  bright  way, 
And  newer,  lovelier  streets  men  rear  ; 

Friends  there  as  in  the  past  as  gay  ; — 
Those  haunts  of  old  we  still  revere. — 
Their  like  will  never  more  appear. 

Gone  from  the  leafy  boulevards 
Those  old-time  cafes,  still  we  say, 

To  sing  their  praise  where  is  the  bard  ? 

Garnished  are  all  those  haunts  to-day 

With  newer  lights,  ah  me  !  they  share 
A  newer  company,  and  play 

A  newer  role,  new  fashions  wear  ; 

But  with  the  old  will  these  compare  ? 
Along  the  same  bright  boulevard 

The  ghosts  of  cafes  old  still  stray, — 
To  sing  their  praise  where  is  the  bard  ? 


THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS  15 

Envoi. 

Paris,  thy  streets  are  fair  to-day, 

And  bright  each  lovely  boulevard  ; — 

Those  old-time  cafes,  where  are  they  ? 
To  sing  their  praise  where  is  the  bard  ? 

CLEMENT   MOLINET. 


•  COMBIEN  J'AI  DOUCE  SOUVENANCE  !' 

It  was  on  a  beautiful  June  morning  in  a  charming 
French  garden,  where  the  warm,  sweet  atmosphere 
was  laden  with  the  scent  of  hlac  and  syringa,  and 
gay  with  butterflies  and  dragonflies  and  humble-bees, 
that  I  began  my  conscious  existence  with  the  happiest 
day  of  all  my  outer  Ufe. 

It  is  true  that  I  have  vague  memories.  ...  I 
could  recall  the  blue  stage-coach  with  the  four  tall, 
thin,  brown  horses,  so  quiet  and  modest  and  well- 
behaved  ;  the  red-coated  guard  and  his  horn ;  the 
red-faced  driver  and  his  husky  voice  and  many  capes. 
Then  the  steamer  with  its  glistening  deck  so  beautiful 
and  white,  it  seemed  quite  a  desecration  to  walk  upon 
it.  .  .  . 

After  this  came  the  dream  of  a  strange,  huge,  top- 
heavy  vehicle,  that  seemed  Uke  three  yellow  carriages 
stuck  together,  and  a  mountain  of  luggage  at  the  top 
under  an  immense  black  tarpaulin,  which  ended  in  a 
hood  ;  and  beneath  the  hood  sat  a  blue-bloused  man 
with  a  singular  cap  like  a  concertina,  and  moustaches, 
who  cracked  a  loud  whip  over  five  squealing,  fussy, 
pugnacious  white  and  grey  horses,  with  bells  on  their 
necks  and  busy  fox-tails  on  their  foreheads,  and  their 
own  tails  carefully  tucked  up  behind. 


i6  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

From  the  coupe  where  I  sat  with  my  father  and 
mother  I  could  watch  them  well  as  they  led  us  through 
dusty  roads  with  endless  apple-trees  or  poplars  on 
either  side.  .  .  .  Then  it  all  became  rather  tiresome 
and  intermittent  and  confused,  till  we  reached  at  dusk 
next  day  a  quay  by  abroad  river;  and  as  we  drove  along 
it,  under  thick  trees,  we  met  other  red  and  blue  and 
green  lamped,  five- horsed  diligences  starting  on  their 
long  journey  just  as  ours  was  coming  to  an  end. 

Then  I  knew  (because  I  was  a  well-educated  little 
boy,  and  heard  my  father  exclaim,  '  Here's  Paris  at 
last  !')  that  we  had  entered  the  capital  of  France. 

Oh,  the  beautiful  garden  !  .  .  .  My  fond  remem- 
brance would  tell  me  that  this  region  was  almost 
boundless,  well  as  I  remember  its  boundaries.  My 
knowledge  of  physical  geography,  as  applied  to  this 
particular  suburb  of  Paris,  bids  me  assign  more  modest 
limits  to  this  earthly  paradise,  which  again  was 
separated  by  an  easily  surmounted  fence  from  Louis 
Philippe's  Bois  de  Boulogne  ;  and  to  this  I  cannot  find 
it  in  my  heart  to  assign  any  limits  whatever,  except 
the  pretty  old  town  from  which  it  takes  its  name, 
and  whose  principal  street  leads  to  that  magical  com- 
bination of  river,  bridge,  palace,  gardens,  mountain, 
and  forest — St.  Cloud. 

As  we  grew  older  and  wiser  we  had  permission  to 
extend  our  explorations  to  Meudon,  Versailles,  St. 
Germain,  and  other  delightful  places.  .  .  .  Also,  we 
made  ourselves  at  home  in  Paris,  especially  old  Paris. 

For  instance,  there  was  the  island  of  St.  Louis, 
with  its  stately  old  mansions  entre  cour  et  jardin, 


AVINl'K    I>1-    I'.OIS    l>K    I'.OULOGNE 


THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS  17 

behind  grim  stone  portals  and  high  walls,  where  great 
magistrates  and  lawyers  dwelt  in  dignified  seclusion — 
the  nobles  of  the  robe  ;  and  where  once  had  dwelt, 
in  days  gone  by,  the  greater  nobles  of  the  sword — 
crusaders,  perhaps,  and  knights  templars,  Hke  Brian 
de  Bois  Guilbert. 

And  that  other  more  famous  island,  la  Cite,  where 
Paris  itself  was  born,  where  Notre  Dame  reared  its 
twin  towers  above  the  melancholy,  grey,  leprous 
walls  and  dirty  brown  roofs  of  the  Hotel-Dieu. 

Pathetic  httle  tumble-down  old  houses,  all  out  of 
drawing  and  perspective,  nestled  Hke  old  spiders'  webs 
between  the  buttresses  of  the  great  cathedral ;  and 
on  two  sides  of  the  Httle  square  in  front  (the  Place 
du  Parvis  Notre  Dame)  stood  ancient  stone  dwelhngs, 
with  high  slate  roofs  and  elaborately-wrought  iron 
balconies.  They  seemed  to  have  such  romantic  his- 
tories that  I  never  tired  of  gazing  at  them,  and 
wondering  what  the  histories  could  be;  and  now  I  think 
of  it,  one  of  these  very  dwellings  must  have  been  the 
Hotel  de  Gondelaurier,  where,  according  to  the  most 
veracious  historian  that  ever  was,  poor  Esmeralda 
once  danced  and  played  the  tambourine  to  divert 
the  fair  damosel  Fleur-de-Lys  de  Gondelaurier  and 
her  noble  friends,  all  of  whom  she  transcended  in 
beauty,  purity,  goodness,  and  breeding  (although  she 
was  but  an  untaught,  wandering  gipsy  girl  out  of 
the  gutter)  ;  and  there,  before  them  all  and  the  gay 
archer,  she  was  betrayed  to  her  final  undoing  by  her 
goat,  whom  she  had  so  imprudently  taught  how  to 
spell  the  beloved  name  of  '  Phcbus.' 

Close  by  was  the  Morgue,  that  gruesome  building 
which  the  great  etcher  Mcryon  has  managed  to 
invest  with  some  weird  fascination  akin  to  that  it 

2 


i8  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

had  for  me  in  those  days — and  has  now,  as  I  see  it 
with  the  charmed  eyes  of  Memory. 

La  Morgue  !  what  a  fatal  twang  there  is  about  the 
very  name  ! 

After  gazing  one's  fill  at  the  horrors  wdthin  (as 
became  a  healthy-minded  English  boy),  it  was  but 
a  step  to  the  equestrian  statue  of  Henri  Quatre,  on 
the  Pont-Neuf  (the  oldest  bridge  in  Paris,  by  the 
way) ;  there,  astride  his  long-tailed  charger,  he  smiled 
e  roy  vert  et  galant,  just  midway  between  either  bank 
of  the  historic  river,  just  where  it  was  most  historic  ; 
and  turned  his  back  on  the  Paris  of  the  bourgeois  King 
with  the  pear-shaped  face  and  mutton-chop  whiskers. 
And  there  one  stood,  spellbound  in  indecision,  like 
the  ass  of  Buridan  between  two  sacks  of  oats  ;  for  on 
either  side,  north  or  south  of  the  Pont-Neuf,  were  to 
be  found  enchanting  slums  all  more  attractive  the  ones 
than  the  others,  winding  up  and  down  hill  and  round 
about  and  in  and  out,  hke  haunting  illustrations  by 
Gustave  Dore  to  Drolatick  Tales  by  Balzac.  .  .  . 

Dark,  narrow,  silent,  deserted  streets  would  turn 
up  afterward  in  many  a  nightmare.  .  .  .  And  sug- 
gestive names  printed  in  old  rusty  iron  letters  at  the 
street  corners — '  Rue  Vide  gousset,'  '  Rue  Coupe- 
gorge,'  '  Rue  de  la  Vieille  Truanderie,'  '  Impasse  de 
la  Tour  de  Nesle,'  etc. — that  appealed  to  the  imagina- 
tion hke  a  chapter  from  Hugo  or  Dumas. 

And  the  way  to  these  was  by  long,  tortuous,  busy 
thoroughfares,  most  irregularly  flagged,  and  all  alive 
with  strange,  dehghtful  people  in  blue  blouses,  brown 
woollen  tricots,  wooden  shoes,  red  and  white  cotton 
nightcaps,  rags  and  patches  ;  most  graceful  girls,  with 
pretty,  self-respecting  feet,  and  flashing  eyes,  and  no 
head-dress  but  their  own  hair.  .  .  . 


THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS  19 

Then  a  proletarian  wedding  procession — headed  by 
the  bride  and  bridegroom,  an  ungainly  pair  in  their 
Sunday  best — all  singing  noisily  together.  Then  a 
pauper  funeral,  or  a  covered  stretcher,  followed  by 
sjTnpathetic  eyes,  on  its  way  to  the  Hotel-Dieu  ;  or 
the  last  Sacrament,  with  bell  and  candle,  bound  for 
the  bedside  of  some  humble  agonizer  in  extremis — and 
we  all  uncovered  as  it  went  by. 

And  then,  for  a  running  accompaniment  of  sound, 
the  clanging  chimes,  the  itinerant  street  cries,  the 
tinkle  of  the  marchand  de  coco,  the  drum,  the  cor  de 
chasse,  the  organ  of  Barbary,  the  ubiquitous  pet 
parrot,  the  knife-grinder,  the  bawling  fried-potato 
monger,  and,  most  amusing  of  all,  the  poodle-clipper 
and  his  son,  strophe  and  antistrophe,  for  every 
minute  the  httle  boy  would  yell  out  in  his  shrill 
treble  that  '  his  father  clipped  poodles  for  thirty 
sous.'  ...    It  was  all  entrancing. 

Thence  home — to  quiet,  innocent,  suburban  Passy 
— by  the  quays,  walking  on  the  top  of  the  stone 
parapet  all  the  way,  so  as  to  miss  nothing  (till  a 
gendarme  was  in  sight),  or  else  by  the  Boulevards, 
the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  the  Champs  Elysces,  the  Avenue 
de  St.  Cloud,  and  the  Chaussee  de  la  Muette.  What 
a  beautiful  walk  !  Is  there  another  hke  it  anywhere 
as  it  was  then,  in  the  sweet  early  forties  of  this  worn- 
out  old  century,  and  before  this  poor  scribe  had 
reached  his  teens  ? 

Ah,  it  is  something  to  have  known  that  Paris 
which  lay  at  one's  feet  as  one  gazed  from  the  heights 
of  Passy,  with  all  its  pinnacles  and  spires  and 
gorgeously  gilded  domes,  its  Arch  of  Triumph,  its 
Elysian  Fields,  its  Field  of  Mars,  its  Towers  of  Our 

2 — 2 


20  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

Lady,  its  far-off  Column  of  July,  its  Invalids,  and 
Vale  of  Grace,  and  Magdalen,  and  Place  of  the  Con- 
cord, where  the  obelisk  reared  its  exotic  peak  by  the 
beautiful  unforgettable  fountains. 

There  flowed  the  many-bridged  winding  river, 
always  the  same  way,  unlike  our  tidal  Thames,  and 
always  full ;  just  beyond  it  was  spread  that  stately 
exclusive  suburb,  the  despair  of  the  newly  rich  and 
recently  ennobled,  where  almost  every  other  house 
bore  a  name  which  read  like  a  page  of  French  history  ; 
and  farther  still  the  merry,  wicked  Latin  quarter  and 
the  grave  Sorbonne,  the  Pantheon,  the  Garden  of 
Plants  ;  on  the  hither  side,  in  the  middle  distance,  the 
Louvre,  where  the  kings  of  France  had  dwelt  for 
centuries ;  the  Tuileries,  where  '  the  King  of  the 
French  '  dwelt  then,  and  just  for  a  httle  while  yet. 

Well  I  knew  and  loved  it  all ;  and  most  of  all  I 
loved  it  when  the  sun  was  setting  at  my  back,  and 
innumerable  distant  windows  reflected  the  blood-red 
western  flame.  It  seemed  as  though  half  Paris  was 
on  fire,  with  the  cold  blue  east  for  a  background. 

Dear  Paris  ! 

GEORGE   DU   MAURIER. 


THE  LURE  OF  FRANCE 

France  lured  me  forth  ;  the  realm  that  I  had  crossed 
So  lately,  journeying  toward  the  snow-clad  Alps. 
But  now,  relinquishing  the  scrip  and  staff. 
And  all  enjoyment  which  the  summer  sun 
Sheds  round  the  steps  of  those  who  meet  the  day 
With  motion  constant  as  his  own,  I  went 
Prepared  to  sojourn  in  a  pleasant  town, 
Washed  by  the  cun-ent  of  the  stately  Loire. 


THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS  21 

Through  Paris  lay  my  readiest  course,  and  there 
Sojourning  a  few  days,  I  visited 
In  haste,  each  spot  of  old  or  recent  fame, 
The  latter  chiefly  ;  from  the  field  of  Mars 
Down  to  the  suburbs  of  St.  Antony, 
And  from  Mont  Martre  southward  to  the  dome 
Of  Genevieve.    In  both  her  clamorous  Hails, 
The  National  Synod  and  the  Jacobins, 
I  saw  the  Revolutionary  Power 
Toss  like  a  ship  at  anchor,  rocked  by  storms  ; 
The  Arcades  I  traversed,  in  the  Palace  huge 
Of  Orleans.  .  .  . 

Where  silent  zephyrs  sported  with  the  dust 
Of  the  Bastille,  I  sate  in  the  open  sun, 
And  from  the  rubbish  gathered  up  a  stone, 
And  pocketed  the  rehc,  in  the  guise 
Of  an  enthusiast ;  yet,  in  honest  truth, 
I  looked  for  something  that  I  could  not  find, 
Affecting  more  emotion  than  I  felt ; 
For  'tis  most  certain,  that  these  various  sights, 
However  potent  their  first  shock,  with  me 
Appeared  to  recompense  the  traveller's  pains 
Less  than  the  painted  Magdalene  of  Le  Brun, 
A  beauty  exquisitely  wrought,  with  hair 
Dishevelled,  gleaming  eyes,  and  rueful  cheek 
Pale  and  bedropped  with  overflowing  tears. 

It  was  a  beautiful  and  silent  day 
That  overspread  the  countenance  of  earth, 
Then  fading  with  unusual  quietness, — 
A  day  as  beautiful  as  e'er  was  given 
To  soothe  regret,  though  deepening  what  it  soothed, 
When  by  the  gliding  Loire  I  paused,  and  cast 


22  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

Upon  his  rich  domains,  vineyard  and  tilth, 

Green  meadow-ground,  and  many-coloured  woods, 

Again,  and  yet  again,  a  farewell  look  ; 

Then  from  the  quiet  of  that  scene  passed  on, 

Bound  to  the  fierce  Metropolis.    From  his  throne 

The  King  had  fallen,  and  that  invading  host — 

Presumptuous  cloud  on  whose  black  front  was  writt^i 

The  tender  mercies  of  the  dismal  wind 

That  bore  it — on  the  plains  of  Liberty 

Had  burst  innocuous.    Say  in  bolder  words, 

They — who  had  come  elate  as  eastern  hunters 

Banded  beneath  the  Great  Mogul,  when  he 

Erewhile  went  forth  from  Agra  or  Lahore, 

Rajahs  and  Omrahs  in  liis  train,  intent 

To  drive  their  prey  enclosed  within  a  ring 

Wide  as  a  province,  but,  the  signal  given, 

Before  the  point  of  the  life-threatening  spear 

Narrowing  itself  by  moments — they,  rash  men. 

Had  seen  the  anticipated  quarry  turned 

Into  avengers,  from  whose  wrath  they  fled 

In  terror.    Disappointment  and  dismay 

Remained  for  all  whose  fancies  had  run  wild 

With  evil  expectations  ;  confidence 

And  perfect  triumph  for  the  better  cause. 

The  State — as  if  to  stamp  the  final  seal 
On  her  security,  and  to  the  world 
Show  what  she  was,  a  high  and  fearless  soul. 
Exulting  in  defiance,  or  heart-strung 
By  sharp  resentment,  or  belike  to  taunt 
With  spiteful  gratitude  the  baffled  League, 
That  had  stirred  up  her  slackening  faculties 
To  a  new  transition — when  the  King  was  crushed. 
Spared  not  the  empty  throne,  and  in  proud  haste 


THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS  23 

Assumed  the  body  and  venerable  name 
Of  a  Republic.    Lamentable  crimes, 
'Tis  true,  had  gone  before  this  hour,  dire  work 
Of  massacre,  in  which  the  senseless  sword 
Was  prayed  to  as  a  judge  ;  but  these  were  past, 
Earth  free  from  them  for  ever,  as  was  thought — 
Ephemeral  monsters,  to  be  seen  but  once  ! 
Things  that  could  only  show  themselves  and  die. 

Cheered  with  this  hope,  to  Paris  I  returned, 
And  ranged,  with  ardour  heretofore  unfelt, 
The  spacious  city,  and  in  progress  passed 
The  prison  where  the  unhappy  Monarch  lay, 
Associate  with  his  children  and  his  wife 
In  bondage  ;  and  the  palace,  lately  stormed 
With  roar  of  cannon  by  a  furious  host. 
I  crossed  the  square  (an  empty  area  then  !) 
Of  the  Carrousel,  where  so  late  had  lain 
The  dead,  upon  the  dying  heaped,  and  gazed 
On  this  and  other  spots,  as  doth  a  man 
Upon  a  volume  whose  contents  he  knows 
Are  memorable,  but  from  him  locked  up, 
Being  written  in  a  tongue  he  cannot  read, 
So  that  he  questions  the  mute  leaves  with  pain. 
And  half  upbraids  their  silence.    But  that  night 
I  felt  most  deeply  in  what  world  I  was, 
What  ground  I  trod  on,  and  what  air  I  breathed. 
High  was  my  room  and  lonely,  near  the  roof 
Of  a  large  mansion  or  hotel,  a  lodge 
That  would  have  pleased  me  in  more  quiet  times  ; 
Nor  was  it  wholly  without  pleasure  then. 
With  unextinguished  taper  I  kept  watch, 
Reading  at  intervals  ;  the  fear  gone  by 
Pressed  on  me  almost  hke  a  fear  to  come. 


24  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

I  thought  of  those  September  massacres, 

Divided  from  me  by  one  little  month, 

Saw  them  and  touched  :  the  rest  was  conjured  up 

From  tragic  fictions  or  true  history, 

Remembrances  and  dim  admonishments. 

The  horse  is  taught  his  manage,  and  no  star 

Of  wildest  course  but  treads  back  his  own  steps  ; 

For  the  spent  hurricane  the  air  provides 

As  fierce  a  successor  ;  the  tide  retreats 

But  to  return  out  of  its  hiding-place 

In  the  great  deep  ;  all  things  have  second  birth  ; 

The  earthquake  is  not  satisfied  at  once  ; 

And  in  this  way  I  wrought  upon  myself. 

Until  I  seemed  to  hear  a  voice  that  cried. 

To  the  whole  city,  '  Sleep  no  more.'    The  trance 

Fled  with  the  voice  to  which  it  had  given  birth ; 

But  vainly  comments  of  a  calmer  mind 

Promised  soft  peace  and  sweet  forgetfulness. 

The  place,  all  hushed  and  silent  as  it  was, 

Appeared  unfit  for  the  repose  of  night. 

Defenceless  as  a  wood  where  tigers  roam. 

With  early  morning  towards  the  Palace-walk 
Of  Orleans  eagerly  I  turned  :  as  yet 
The  streets  were  still ;  not  so  those  long  Arcades  ; 
There,  'mid  a  peal  of  ill-matched  sounds  and  cries. 
That  greeted  me  on  entering,  I  could  hear 
Shrill  voices  from  the  hawkers  in  the  throng. 
Bawling,  '  Denunciation  of  the  Crimes 
Of  Maximilian  Robespierre  ';  the  hand. 
Prompt  as  the  voice,  held  forth  a  printed  speech. 
The  same  that  had  been  recently  pronounced. 
When  Robespierre,  not  ignorant  for  what  mark 
Some  words  of  indirect  reproof  had  been 


THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS  25 

Intended,  rose  in  hardihood,  and  dared 

The  man  who  had  an  ill  surmise  of  him 

To  bring  his  charge  in  openness  ;  whereat, 

When  a  dead  pause  ensued,  and  no  one  stirred, 

In  silence  of  all  present,  from  his  seat 

Louvet  walked  single  through  the  avenue, 

And  took  his  station  in  the  Tribune,  saying, 

'  I,  Robespierre,  accuse  thee  !'    Well  is  known 

The  inglorious  issue  of  that  charge,  and  how 

He,  who  had  launched  the  starthng  thunderbolt, 

The  one  bold  man,  whose  voice  the  attack  had  sounded. 

Was  left  NN-ithout  a  follower  to  discharge 

His  perilous  duty,  and  retire  lamenting 

That  Heaven's  best  aid  is  wasted  upon  men 

Who  to  themselves  are  false. 

But  these  are  things 
Of  which  I  speak,  only  as  they  were  storm 
Or  sunshine  to  my  individual  mind. 
No  further.    Let  me  then  relate  that  now — 
In  some  sort  seeing  with  my  proper  eyes 
That  Liberty,  and  Life,  and  Death,  would  soon 
To  the  remotest  corners  of  the  land 
Lie  in  the  arbitremcnt  of  those  who  ruled 
The  capital  City  ;  what  was  struggled  for, 
And  by  what  combatants  victory  must  be  won  ; 
The  indecision  on  their  part  whose  aim 
Seemed  best,  and  the  straightforward  path  of  those 
Who  in  attack  or  in  defence  were  strong 
Through  their  impiety — my  inmost  soul 
Was  agitated  ;  yea,  I  could  almost 
Have  prayed  that  throughout  earth  upon  all  men. 
By  patient  exercise  of  reason  made 
Worthy  of  Uberty,  all  spirits  filled 
With  zeal  expanding  in  Truth's  holy  light, 


26  THE  CHAR^I  OF  PARIS 

The  gift  of  tongues  might  fall,  and  power  arrive 

From  the  four  quarters  of  the  winds  to  do 

For  France,  what  without  help  she  could  not  do, 

A  work  of  honour  ;  think  not  that  to  this 

I  added,  work  of  safety  :  from  all  doubt 

Or  trepidation  for  the  end  of  things 

Far  was  I,  far  as  angels  are  from  guilt. 

WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH. 


PARIS  :  A  TOTAL 

Paris  is  a  total.  Paris  is  the  ceiling  of  the  human 
race.  The  whole  of  this  prodigious  city  is  a  fore- 
shortening of  dead  manners  and  living  manners.  He 
who  sees  Paris  thinks  he  sees  the  bottom  of  all  history 
with  heaven  and  constellations  in  the  intervals.  Paris 
has  a  capital,  the  Town  HaU,  a  Parthenon,  Notre 
Dame,  a  Mount  Aventine,  the  Faubourg  Saint-An- 
toine,  an  Asinarium,  the  Sorbonne,  a  Pantheon,  a  Via 
Sacra,  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens,  a  temple  of  the 
winds,  opinion  ;  and  it  replaces  the  Gemoniae  by  ridi- 
cule. Its  majo  is  called  '  faraud,'  its  Transteverin  is 
the  man  of  the  faubourgs,  its  hanimal  is  the  market- 
porter,  its  lazzarone  is  the  pegre,  its  cockney  is  the 
native  of  Ghent.  Everything  that  exists  elsewhere 
exists  at  Paris.  The  fishwoman  of  Dumarsais  can 
retort  on  the  herb-seller  of  Euripides,  the  discobols 
Vejanus  lives  again  in  the  Forioso,  the  tight-rope 
dancer.  Therapontigonus  Miles  could  walk  arm  in 
arm  with  Vadeboncoeur  the  grenadier,  Damasippus 
the  second-hand  dealer  would  be  happy  among  bric- 
a-brac  merchants,  Vincennes  could  greisp  Socrates  in 
its  fist  just  as  Agora  could  imprison  Diderot,  Grimod 
de  la  Reyniere  discovered  larded  roast  beef,  as  Cur- 


THE  CHAILM  OF  PARIS  27 

tillus  invented  roast  hedgehog ;  we  see  the  trapeze 
which  figures  in  Plautus  reappear  under  the  vault  of 
the  Arc  of  I'Etoile,  the  sword-eater  of  Poecilus  en- 
countered by  Apuleius  is  a  sword-swallower  on  the 
Pont-Xeuf,  the  nephew  of  Rameau  and  Curculio  the 
parasite  make  a  pair ;  Ergasilus  could  get  himself 
presented  to  Cambaccres  by  d'Aigrefeuille  ;  the  four 
dandies  of  Rome  :  Alcesimarchus,  Phoedromus,  Dia- 
bolus,  and  Argyrippus,  descend  from  Courtille  in 
Labatut's  posting-chaise  ;  Aulus  Gelhus  would  halt 
no  longer  in  front  of  Congrio  than  would  Charles 
Nodier  in  front  of  Punchinello  ;  Marto  is  not  a  tigress, 
but  Pardalisca  was  not  a  dragon  ;  Pantoblabus  the 
wag  jeers  in  the  Ca'^e  Anglais  at  Nomentanus  the  fast 
liver  ;  Hcrmogenus  is  a  tenor  in  the  Champs  Elysees, 
and  round  him  Thracius  the  beggar,  clad  like  Bobeche, 
takes  up  a  collection  ;  the  bore  who  stops  you  by  the 
button  of  your  coat  in  the  Tuileries  makes  you  repeat 
after  a  lapse  of  two  thousand  years  Thesprion's  apos- 
trophe Qiiis  properantcni  me  frehcndit  pallio  ?  The 
wine  on  Surene  is  a  parody  of  the  wine  of  Alba,  the 
red  border  of  Desangiers  forms  a  balance  to  the  great 
cutting  of  Balatro,  Pere  Lachaise  exhales  beneath 
nocturnal  rains  the  same  gleams  as  the  Esquihas,  and 
the  grave  of  the  poor  bought  for  five  \'ears  is  certainly 
the  equivalent  of  a  slave's  hired  cofhn. 

Seek  something  that  Paris  has  not.  The  vat  of 
Trophonius  contains  nothing  that  is  not  also  in  Mes- 
mer's  tub ;  Ergaphilas  lives  again  in  Cagliostro  ;  the 
Brahmin  Vasaphanta  become  incarnate  in  the  Comte 
de  Saint-Germain ;  the  cemetery  of  Saint-]\Iedard 
works  quite  as  good  miracles  as  the  Mosque  of 
Oumoumie  at  Damascus. 

Paris  has  an  .^sop-Mayeux,  and  a  Canidia,  Made- 


28  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

moiselle  Lenormand.  It  is  terrified,  like  Delphos,  at 
the  fulgurating  realities  of  the  vision  ;  it  makes  tables 
turn  as  Dodona  did  tripods.  It  places  the  grisette 
on  the  throne,  as  Rome  placed  the  courtesan  there ; 
and,  taking  it  altogether,  if  Louis  XV.  is  worse  than 
Claudian,  Madame  Dubarry  is  better  than  Mesalina. .  . 

Although  Plutarch  says  :  the  tyrant  never  grows  old, 
Rome,  under  Sylla  as  under  Domitian,  resigned  itself, 
and  willingly  put  water  in  its  wine.  .  .  .  Paris  drinks 
a  million  litres  of  water  a  day,  but  that  does  not 
prevent  it  from  occasionally  beating  the  general  alarm 
and  ringing  the  tocsin. 

With  that  exception,  Paris  is  amiable.  It  excepts 
everything  royally.  .  .  .  The  Sj^ian  hostess  has  more 
grace  than  Mother  Saguet,  but,  if  Virgil  haunted  the 
Roman  wine-shop,  David  d'Angers,  Balzac,  and 
Charlet  have  sat  at  the  tables  of  Parisian  taverns, 
Paris  reigns.  Geniuses  flash  forth  there,  the  red  tails 
prosper  there.  Adonai  passes  on  his  chariot  with  its 
twelve  wheels  of  thunder  and  lightning  ;  Silenus  makes 
his  entry  there  on  his  ass.  For  Silenus  read  Ram- 
ponneau. 

Paris  is  the  synonym  of  Cosmos,  Paris  is  Athens, 
Sybaris,  Jerusalem,  Pantin.  .  .  . 

There  is  no  limit  to  Paris.  No  city  has  had  that 
domination  which  sometimes  derides  those  whom  it 
subjugates.  *  To  please  you,  0  Athenians  !'  exclaimed 
Alexander.  Paris  makes  more  than  the  law,  it  makes 
the  fashion  ;  Paris  sets  more  than  the  fashion,  it  sets 
the  routine.  Paris  may  be  stupid,  if  it  sees  fit ;  it 
sometimes  allows  itself  this  luxury  ;  then  the  universe 
is  stupid  in  company  with  it ;  then  Paris  awakes,  rubs 
its  eyes,  says  :  '  How  stupid  I  am  !'  and  bursts  out 
laughing  in  the  face  of  the  human  race.     What  a 


THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS  29 

marvel  is  such  a  city  !  It  is  a  strange  thing  that  this 
grandioseness  and  this  burlesque  should  be  amicable 
neighbours,  that  all  this  majesty  should  not  be  thrown 
into  disorder  by  all  this  parody,  and  that  the  same 
mouth  can  to-da}^  blow  into  the  trump  of  the  Judg- 
ment Day,  and  to-morrow  into  the  reed-flute  !  Paris 
has  a  sovereign  joviaUty.  Its  gaiety  is  of  the  thunder 
and  its  farce  holds  a  sceptre. 

Its  tempest  sometimes  proceeds  from  a  grimace. 
Its  explosions,  its  days,  its  masterpieces,  its  prodigies, 
its  epics,  go  forth  to  the  bounds  of  the  universe,  and 
so  also  do  its  cock-and-bull  stories.  Its  laugh  is  the 
mouth  of  a  volcano  which  spatters  the  whole  earth. 
Its  jests  are  sparks.  It  imposes  its  caricatures  as  well 
as  its  ideal  on  people  ;  the  highest  monuments  of 
human  civiUzation  accept  its  ironies  and  lend  their 
eternity  to  its  mischievous  pranks.  It  is  superb  ;  it 
has  a  prodigious  fourteenth  of  July,  which  delivers 
the  globe  ;  it  forces  all  nations  to  take  the  oath  of 
tennis  ;  its  night  of  the  fourth  of  August  dissolves  in 
three  hours  a  thousand  years  of  feudalism  ;  it  makes 
of  its  logic  the  muscle  of  unanimous  will ;  it  multiplies 
itself  under  all  sorts  of  forms  of  the  sublime.  ...  It 
is  the  tribute  under  the  feet  of  Mirabeau,  and  a  crater 
under  the  feet  of  Robespierre  ;  its  books,  its  theatre, 
its  art,  its  science,  its  literature,  its  philosophy,  are 
the  manuals  of  the  human  race  ;  it  has  Pascal,  Reg- 
nier,  Corneille,  Descartes,  Jean- Jacques  ;  Voltaire  for 
all  moments,  Moliere  for  all  centuries ;  it  makes  its 
language  to  be  talked  by  the  universal  mouth,  and 
that  language  becomes  the  word  ;  it  constructs  in  all 
minds  the  idea  of  progress,  the  hbcrating  dogmas 
which  it  forges  are  for  the  generations'  trusty  friends, 
and  it  is  with  the  soul  of  its  tliinkers  and  its  poets 


30  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

that  all  heroes  of  all  nations  have  been  made  since 
1789  ;  this  does  not  prevent  vagabondism  ;  and  that 
enormous  genius  which  is  called  Paris,  while  trans- 
figuring the  world  by  its  light,  sketches  in  charcoal 
Bouginier's  nose  on  the  wall  of  the  temple  of  Theseus 
and  writes  Credeville  the  thief  on  the  Pyramids. 

Paris  is  always  showing  its  teeth  ;  when  it  is  not 
scolding  it  is  laughing. 

Such  is  Paris.  victor  hugo. 


PARIS  :   ITS  PICTURESQUE  CHARM 

A  PAINTER  in  Paris,  even  though  he  starve  on  a  few 
sous  a  day,  can  have  so  much  that  is  lovely  and  full 
of  picturesque  charm  in  his  daily  pursuits  :  the  long, 
wondrous  galleries  full  of  the  arts  he  adores  ;  the 
realite  de  I' ideal  around  him  in  that  perfect  world ; 
the  slow,  sweet,  studious  hours  in  the  calm  wherein 
all  that  is  great  in  humanity  alone  survives  the 
trance — half  adoration,  half  aspiration,  at  once  desire 
and  despair — before  the  face  of  the  Mona  Lisa  ;  then, 
without,  the  streets  so  glad  and  so  gay  in  the  sweet, 
living  sunshine  ;  the  quiver  of  green  leaves  among 
gilded  balconies  ;  the  groups  at  every  turn  about  the 
doors  ;  the  glow  of  colour  in  market-place  and  peopled 
square  ;  the  quaint  grey  piles  in  old  historic  ways  ; 
the  stones,  from  every  one  of  which  some  voice  from 
the  imperishable  Past  cries  out ;  the  green  and  silent 
woods,  the  little  leafy  villages,  the  winding  waters 
garden-girt  ;  the  forest  heights,  with  the  city  gleaming 
and  golden  in  the  plain  ;  all  these  are  his. 

With  these — and  youth — who  shall  dare  say  the 
painter  is  not  rich — ay,  though  his  board  be  empty 
and  his  cup  be  dry  ? 


THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS  31 

I  had  not  loved  Paris.  .  .  .  But  I  grew  to  love  it, 
hearing  from  Rene  and  from  Lili  of  all  the  poetry  and 
gladness  that  Paris  made  possible  in  their  young  and 
burdened  lives,  and  which  could  have  been  thus 
possible  in  no  other  city  of  the  earth. 

City  of  Pleasure  you  have  called  her,  and  with 
truth  ;  but  why  not  also  City  of  the  Poor  ?  For  what 
city  like  herself  has  remembered  the  poor  in  her 
pleasure,  and  given  to  them,  no  less  than  to  the 
richest,  the  treasure  of  her  laughing  sunlight,  of  her 
melodious  music,  of  her  gracious  hues,  of  her  million 
flowers,  of  her  shady  leaves,  of  her  divine  ideals  ? 

OUIDA. 


A  STATUE  AND  A  BOOK  OF  SONGS 

We  proceeded,  through  Lyons  and  Auxerre,  to  Paris. 
Beyond  Lyons,  we  met  on  the  road  the  statue  of 
Louis  XIV.  going  to  that  city  to  overawe  it  with 
Bourbon  memories.  It  was  an  equestrian  statue, 
covered  up,  guarded  with  soldiers,  and  looking  on 
that  road  like  some  mysterious  heap.  Don  Quixote 
would  have  attacked  it,  and  not  been  thought  mad  : 
so  much  has  romance  done  for  us.  ...  I  had  bought 
in  that  city  a  volume  of  the  songs  of  Beranger,  and  I 
thought  to  myself,  as  I  met  the  statue,  '  I  have  a 
little  book  in  my  pocket,  which  will  not  suffer  you  to 
last  long.'  And,  surely  enough,  down  it  went ;  for 
down  went  King  Charles. 

Statues  rise  and  fall ;  but,  a  little  on  the  other  side 
of  Lyons,  our  postilion  exclaimed,  '  Monte  Bianco !' 
and  turning  round,  I  beheld,  for  the  first  time, 
Mont  Blanc,  which  had  been  hidden  from  us,  when 
neiu  it,  by  a  fog.     It  luokcJ  like  a  turret  in  tiic  bky. 


32  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

amber-coloured,  golden,  belonging  to  the  wall  of 
some  ethereal  world.  This,  too,  is  in  our  memories 
for  ever — an  addition  to  our  stock — a  light  for 
memory  to  turn  to,  when  it  wishes  a  beam  upon  its 
face. 

At  Paris  we  could  stop  but  for  two  da\'B,  and  I 
had  but  t^'o  thoughts  in  my  head  :  one  of  the  Revolu- 
tion, the  other  of  the  times  of  Mohere  and  Boileau. 
Accordingly  I  looked  about  for  the  Sorbonne,  and 
went  to  see  the  place  where  the  guillotine  stood  — 
the  place  where  thousands  of  spirits  underwent  the 
last  pang  of  morality ;  many  guilty,  many  innocent, 
but  all  the  \'ictims  of  reaction  against  t\Tanny  such 
as  will  never  let  t\Tanny  be  what  it  was,  unless  a 
con\-ulsion  of  nature  should  swallow  up  knowledge, 
and  make  the  world  begin  over  again.  These  are  the 
thoughts  that  en^^.ble  us  to  bear  such  sights,  and  that 
ser\-e  to  secure  what  we  hope  for. 

Paris,  besides  being  a  beautiful  cit\'  in  the  quarters 
that  strangers  most  look  to,  the  Tuileries,  the  Quai 
de  Voltaire,  etc.,  dehghts  the  eye  of  a  man  of  letters 
by  the  multitude  of  its  book-stalls.  There  seemed 
to  be  a  want  of  old  books  ;  but  the  new  were  better 
than  the  shoal  of  Missals  and  Lives  of  the  Saints  that 
disappoint  the  lover  of  duodecimos  on  the  stalls  of 
Italy  :  and  the  Rousseaus  and  Voltaires  were  endless. 
I  thought,  if  I  were  a  bachelor,  not  an  Enghshman, 
and  had  no  love  for  old  friends  and  fields,  and  no 
decided  religious  opinions,  I  could  live  very  well,  for 
the  rest  of  my  Hfe,  in  a  lodging  above  one  of  the  book- 
sellers' shops  on  the  Quai  de  \'oltaire,  where  I  should 
look  over  the  water  to  the  Tuileries.  and  have  the 
Elysian  fields  in  my  eye  for  my  evening  walk. 

LEIGH  HUNT. 


THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS  33 


DEPARTURE  FROM  PARIS 

Paris,  adieu,  beloved  town, 

To-day  I  turn  a  rover, 
And  leave  you  happy  here  behind, 

With  pleasure  brimming  over. 

My  German  heart  has  fallen  sick — 

Within  my  breast  I  feel  it — 
And  in  the  North  the  doctor  dwells 

Whose  skill  alone  can  heal  it. 

He's  famous  for  his  wondrous  cures, 
To  health  he'll  soon  restore  me, 

But  drastic  are  his  bitter  drugs  ; 
I  shrink  from  what's  before  me. 

Farewell,  ye  merry  folk  of  France, 

My  brothers  happy- hearted  ; 
Though  foolish  yearning  drives  me  forth, 

We  shall  not  long  be  parted. 

Imagine  !     For  the  smell  of  peat 

I  long  with  real  anguish  ; 
For  turnips,  Liineburger  cakes 

And  sauer-kraut  I  languish. 

I  yearn  for  watchmen,  councillors. 
Black  bread  in  all  its  crudeness. 

For  tobacco,  parsons'  daughters  blonde — 
I  even  yearn  for  rudeness. 

I  long  to  see  my  mother,  too  ; 

I  frankly  own  I'm  human — 
'Tis  fully  thirteen  years  since  last 

I  saw  the  dear  old  woman. 


34  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

Farewell,  my  wife,  my  lovely  wife  ; 

I  must  perplex  and  grieve  you — 
So  close  I  fold  you  to  my  heart, 

Yet,  none  the  less,  I  leave  you. 

With  this  terrible  thirst  that  drives  me  far 

From  bliss,  I  dare  not  trifle  ; 
I  feel  I  must  fill  my  lungs  once  more 

With  German  air,  or  stifle. 

In  convulsive  throes  this  pain  would  end — 
This  wild  impetuous  burning — 

My  foot,  to  tread  on  German  ground, 
Quivers  and  shakes  with  yearning. 

By  the  end  of  the  year,  completely  cured 
Of  this  malady  most  unpleasant, 

I'll  be  back,  I  promise,  in  time  to  buy 
The  loveliest  New  Year's  present. 

HEINRICH   HEINE. 
Translated  by  Margaret  Armour. 


IN    PRAISE   OF   PARIS 


3—2 


Truely  Paris,  comprehending  the  suburbs,  is,  for  the  material 
the  houses  are  built  with,  and  many  noble  and  magnificent 
piles,  one  of  the  most  gallant  Cittyes  in  the  world. 

JOHN    EVELYN. 

Amidst  a  spacious  plain  fair  Paris  stands 

(The  heart  of  France),  and  all  the  realm  commands  : 

A  river,  that  beneath  the  ramparts  glides, 

The  city  parts,  but  first  with  branching  tides 

An  island  forms,  securing  from  the  rest. 

Of  all  the  town  the  strongest  and  the  best  : 

Each  other  part  (three  parts  the  whole  compose) 

The  fosse,  without,  and  stream,  within,  enclose. 

LUDOVICO    ARIOSTO. 

It  is  useless  to  contend  against  the  truth.  Paris  is  the 
capital  of  civilization.  Paris  has  been  the  capital  of  civili- 
zation ever  since  civilization  began.  .  .  .  Paris  gives  the  im- 
pression of  having  known  her  imperial  destiny  from  the 
baking  of  the  very  first  brick.  .  .  .  The  air  is  so  clear  and 
essentially  still,  the  light  so  sharp  and  serene,  the  lines  of 
the  houses  so  correct  and  harmonious,  everything  so  bright 
and  clear,  that  you  might  be  in  a  seventeenth-century  court 
instead  of  in  a  nineteenth-century  capital.  Outside  there  is 
everywhere  space  and  light  and  air  ;  Paris  has  grown  without 
cramping.  You  come  on  vast  fa9ades,  whether  of  palaces  or 
of  private  houses,  all  blending  into  a  large  effect  which  is  both 
light  and  stately.  .  .  .  The  smaller  streets  are  clean-paved 
underfoot,  silent,  and  not  jammed  by  traffic — they  might  be 
rides  cut  through  a  wood.  The  very  workmen's  quarters 
brustle  without  choking  ;  the  very  tenement-houses  remember 
that  they  owe  a  duty  to  the  eye. 

G.    W.    SXEEVENS. 


PARIS  DAY  BY  DAY:  A  FAMILIAR  EPISTLE 

Paris,  half  Angel,  half  Grisette, 
I  would  that  I  were  with  thee  yet, 
Where  the  long  boulevard  at  even 
Stretches  its  starry  lamps  to  heaven, 
And  whispers  from  a  thousand  trees 
Vague  hints  of  the  Hesperides. 

Once  more,  once  more,  my  heart,  to  sit 
With  AHne's  smile  and  Harry's  wit, 
To  sit  and  sip  the  cloudy  green. 
With  dreamy  hints  of  speech  between  ; 
Or,  may  be,  flashing  all  intent 
At  call  of  some  stern  argument, 
When  the  New  Woman  fain  would  be, 
Like  the  Old  Male,  her  husband,  free. 
The  prose-man  takes  his  mighty  lyre 
And  talks  like  music  set  on  fire  ! 

And  while  the  merry  crowd  slips  by 
Glittering  and  glancing  to  the  eye, 
All  happy  lovers  on  their  way 
To  make  a  golden  end  of  day — 
Ah  !     Caf6  truly  called  La  Paix  I 

Or  at  the  pension  I  would  be 
With  Transatlantic  maidens  three. 
The  same,  I  vow,  who  once  of  old 
Guarded  with  song  the  trees  of  gold. 
O  Lady,  Lady,  Vis-a-Vis, 
When  shall  I  cease  to  think  of  thee, 
37 


38  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

On  whose  fair  head  the  Golden  Fleece 
Too  soon,  too  soon,  returns  to  Greece — 
Oh,  why  to  Athens  e'er  depart  ? 
Come  back,  come  back,  and  bring  my  heart ! 

And  she  whose  gentle  silver  grace, 
So  wise  of  speech  and  kind  of  face, 
Whose  every  wise  and  witty  word 
Fell  shy,  half  blushing  to  be  heard. 

Last,  but  ah  !  surely  not  least  dear, 
That  blithe  and  buxom  buccaneer, 
Th'  avenging  goddess  of  her  sex, 
Bom  the  base  soul  of  man  to  vex. 
And  wring  from  him  those  tears  and  sighs 
Tortured  from  woman's  heart  and  eyes. 
Ah  •  fury,  fascinating,  fair — 
When  shall  I  cease  to  think  of  her  ! 

Paris,  half  Angel,  half  Grisette, 
I  would  that  I  were  with  thee  yet. 
But  London  waits  me,  like  a  wife, — 
London,  the  love  of  my  whole  life. 

Tell  her  not,  Paris,  mercy  me  ! 
How  I  have  flirted,  dear,  with  thee. 

RICHARD   LE  GALLIENNE. 

THE  GREATNESS  OF  PARIS 

This  Citie  is  exceeding  great,  being  no  lesse  than  ten 
miles  in  circuit,  very  populous,  and  full  of  very 
goodly  buildings,  both  pubUque  and  private,  whereof 
the  greatest  part  are  of  faire  white  free-stone  :  where- 
with it  is  naturally  more  plentifully  furnished  than 
any  Citie  of  Christendome  that  ever  I  read  or  heard 


IN  PRAISE  OF  PARIS  39 

of.  For  the  whole  citie,  together  with  the  suburbes,  is 
situate  upon  a  quarre  of  free-stone,  which  doth  extend 
itself  to  a  great  part  of  the  territorie  round  about 
the  citie,  and  ministreth  that  inexhausted  plenty  of 
stone  for  their  houses.  It  is  round  and  invironed 
with  very  auncient  stone  wals  that  were  built  by 
Julius  Caesar  when  he  made  his  residence  here  in  the 
midst  of  his  French  conquests,  from  whom  some  have 
not  doubted  in  former  times  to  call  it  the  citie  of 
JuHus.  In  those  wals  it  hath  at  this  time  fourteen 
faire  gates.  As  for  her  name  of  Paris,  she  hath  it 
(as  some  write)  from  Paris  the  eighteenth  King  of 
Galha  Celtica,  whom  some  write  to  have  been  lineally 
descended  from  Japhet,  one  of  the  three  sonnes  of 
Noah,  and  to  have  founded  this  citie.  ...  It  is  divided 
into  three  parts,  the  University,  the  Citie,  and  the 
Town  by  the  noble  river  Sequana,  commonly  called  la 
riviere  de  Seine,  which  springeth  from  a  certaine  hill  of 
Burgund}- called  Voga,  near  to  the  people  of  Langres,in 
Latin  Lingones.  The  University  whereof  I  can  speake 
very  Httle,  (for  to  my  great  griefe  I  omitted  to  observe 
those  particulars  m  the  same  that  it  behoved  an  ob- 
servative  traveller,  having  scene  but  one  of  their  prin- 
cipall  Colledges,  which  was  their  famous  Sorbona,  that 
fruitfuil  nursery  of  Schoole-divines)  was  instituted  in 
the  yeare  796,  by  the  good  Emperor  Charles  the  great, 
who  used  the  helpe  of  our  learned  Countreyman 
Alcuinus  his  Master,  and  the  schoUar  of  Venerable 
Beda  in  the  erecting  thereof.  But  to  returne  againe  to 
the  noble  River  Seine  :  There  was  a  building  over  it 
when  I  was  in  the  Citie,  a  goodly  bridge  of  white  free- 
stone, which  was  almost  ended.  Also  there  is  another 
famous  bridge  in  this  Citie,  which  farrc  excelleth  this 
before  mentioned,  having  one  of  the  fairest  streetcs 


40  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

of  all  the  Citie,  called  our  Lady  Street,  in  French  la 
rue  de  nostre  Dame,  built  upon  it.  I  have  heard  that 
Jucundus,  a  certain  Bishop  of  this  citie,  built  this 
bridge.  He  calls  it  Duplicem,  because  there  was 
another  bridge  neare  unto  that  called  the  Httle  bridge, 
built  by  the  same  man  at  the  same  time. . . .  Our  Lady 
streete  is  very  faire,  being  of  a  great  length,  though  not 
so  broad  as  our  Cheapside  in  London  :  but  in  one  thing 
it  exceedeth  any  street  in  London  ;  for  such  is  the  uni- 
formity of  almost  al  the  houses  of  the  same  streete 
which  stand  upon  the  bridge  that  they  are  made  alike 
both  in  proportion  of  workmanship  and  matter :  so  that 
they  make  the  neatest  show  of  all  the  houses  in  Paris, 

Besides  there  are  three  faire  bridges  more  built  upon 
this  river,  whereof  the  one  is  called  the  bridge  of  ex- 
change, where  the  Gold-smiths  dwell,  S.  Michaels 
bridge,  and  the  bridge  of  birdes,  formerly  called  the 
millers  bridge.  The  reason  why  it  is  called  the  bridge 
of  birdes,  is,  because  all  the  signes  belonging  unto 
shops  on  each  side  of  the  streete  are  signes  of  birds.  . .  . 

The  Via  J  acobaea  is  very  full  of  booke-sellers  that  have 
faire  shoppes  most  plentifully  furnished  with  bookes. 

THOMAS  CORYAT  (1611). 

A  WEEK  AT  PARIS 

When  loud  March  from  the  east  begins  to  blow. 

And  earth  and  heaven  are  black,  then  off  we  liie 
By  the  night  train  to  Paris,  where  we  know 

Three  windows  set  to  the  meridian  sky, 

A  third  floor  in  the  Rue  de  Rivoli. 
There  we  will  stop  and  see  the  fair  world  move 

For  our  sole  pleasure  past  us,  you  and  I, 
And  make  pretence  we  are  once  more  in  love. 


IN  PRAISE  OF  PARIS  41 

We  need  not  fret  at  loss  of  pence  or  time, 
Though  father  Bignon's  smiles  are  paid  in  gold. 

This  Ufe  in  idleness  is  more  sublime 
Than  all  our  toil  and  all  our  wealth  twice  told. 

We  need  not  fret.     To-night  for  us  shall  Faure, 
Sara,  Dupuis,  or  I'Heritier  unfold 

New  stores  of  mirth  and  music,  and  once  more 

We  two  shall  sup,  and  at  the  Maison  d'Or. 

WILFRID    BLUNT. 


WALKS  IN  PARIS 

One  excursion  which  every  stranger  in  Paris  is 
reasonably  sure  to  make  is  to  Pere  la  Chaise.  ...  It 
is  at  the  north-eastern  extremity  of  Paris,  and  com- 
mands a  fine  view.  Pere  la  Chaise  is  a  cemetery  of 
immense  size,  covering  an  area  of  one  hundred  and 
seven  acres,  yet  it  is  already  in  many  parts  very 
crowded.  The  most  interesting  monument  in  the 
cemetery  is,  perhaps,  the  tomb  of  Abelard  and  Heloise, 
those  sad-fated  lovers  who  died  ...  in  the  twelfth 
century,  and  yet  whose  melancholy  story  touches 
the  world  still  after  so  many  hundred  years. 

Noble  families  are  buried  here,  and  so  are  heroes 
whose  fighting  days  are  over.  Artists  and  men  of 
letters  repose  very  quietly,  their  heart-burnings  and 
envies  and  jealousies  long  since  ended.  .  .  . 

Leave  Pere  la  Chaise  and  go  down  to  the  Garden 
of  the  Tuileries,  and  see  how  full  they  are  of  the  joy 
and  brightness  of  living.  I  know  not  where  to  find 
walks  so  fascinating  as  a  ramble  through  the  Garden 
of  the  Tuileries,  across  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  and 
on  into  the  Champs  Klysces. 

I  have  taken  tliis  walk  as  a  soft  spring  day  was 


42  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

drawing  to  its  close.  The  sky  was  all  rose  and  gold, 
and  the  distances  were  softly  purple  in  the  evening 
glow.  There  was  a  charm  in  the  scene,  half  pensive  and 
altogether  tender,  which  I  can  never  put  into  words. . . . 

'  Is  there  any  city  in  the  whole  world  so  beautiful 
as  Paris  ?'  I  asked,  as  we  looked  out  towards  the 
Elysian  Fields. 

'  I  think  not,'  answered  my  friend,  who  had 
travelled  much.  .  .  . 

Another  summer-night  pleasure  is  a  trip  on  the 
Seine  in  one  of  the  Httle  steamers  that  are  constantly 
pljdng  up  and  down  it.  I  am  not  sure  that  for  myself 
I  would  not  prefer  such  an  evening  to  any  other.  You 
seem  to  have  taken  leave  of  all  the  heat  and  glare  of 
the  day.  However  hot  it  is  elsewhere,  it  is  always 
cool  on  the  river  after  sunset.  You  have  all  the 
pleasure  with  none  of  the  fatigue  of  motion.  You 
watch  the  Mghts  everywhere,  for  Paris  is  the  most 
brilUantly  Ughted  city  in  the  world ;  and  you  look 
down  into  the  contrasting  depth  and  shadow  of  the 
river  with  a  sort  of  feeling  that  you  are  gliding 
between  two  worlds. 

Every  few  moments  you  pass  under  one  of  the 
twenty-seven  great  bridges  of  Paris  .  .  .  among  the 
most  massive  and  the  grandest  bridges  in  the  world. 
Many  of  them  are  named  in  commemoration  of  famous 
French  victories,  and  some,  as  the  Pont  de  I'Alma,  for 
instance,  are  adorned  with  statues  of  soldiers  who  took 
part  in  the  battle  from  which  the  bridge  takes  its  name. 

All  these  bridges  are  brilUantly  illuminated,  and 
form  a  sort  of  span  of  light  across  the  river  ;  but, 
dropping  under  them,  you  pass  for  a  moment  into  a 
nether  world  of  darkness  and  shadow. 

To  those  who  care  chiefly  to  be  amused,  the  boule- 


IN  PR.'MSE  OF  PARIS  43 

vards,  with  their  out-of-door  refreshments,  afford 
inexhaustible  entertainment.  The  broad  sidewalks 
are  crowded  with  little  round  tables,  so  surrounded  by 
guests  that  it  seems  as  if  all  Paris  must  be  sitting  at 
them.  You  eat  your  ice  or  drink  your  after-dinner 
coffee,  and  a  ceaseless,  constantly  varied  panorama 
moves  by  you.  You  seem  to  meet  all  the  tribes  of  the 
earth  in  Paris. 

LOUISE   CHANDLER   MOULTON. 


FAIR,   FANTASTIC  PARIS 

So,  I  mused 
Up  and  down,  up  and  down,  the  terraced  streets, 
The  gUttering  boulevards,  the  white  colonnades 
Of  fair,  fantastic  Paris  who  wears  boughs 
Like  plumes,  as  if  man  made  them, — tossing  up 
Her  fountains  in  the  sunshine  from  the  squares, 
As  dice  i'  the  game  of  beauty,  sure  to  win  ; 
Or  as  she  blew  the  down-balls  of  her  dreams 
And  only  waited  for  their  falhng  back. 
To  breathe  up  more,  and  count  her  festive  hours. 
The  city  swims  in  verdure,  beautiful 
As  Venice  on  the  waters,  the  sea-swan. 
What  bosky  gardens,  dropped  in  close-walled  courts. 
As  plums  in  ladies'  laps,  who  start  and  laugh  : 
What  miles  of  streets  that  run  on  after  trees, 
Still  carrying  the  necessary  shops. 
Those  open  caskets,  with  the  jewels  seen  ! 
And  trade  is  art,  and  art's  philosophy. 
In  Paris.    There's  a  silk,  for  instance,  there. 
As  worth  an  artist's  study  for  the  folds. 
As  that  bronze  opposite  !  nay,  the  bronze  has  faults  ; 
Art's  here  too  artful, — conscious  as  a  maid, 


44  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

Who  leans  to  mark  her  shadow  on  the  wall 
Until  she  lose  a  'vantage  in  her  step. 
Yet  Art  walks  forward,  and  knows  where  to  walk  : 
The  artists,  also,  are  idealists, 
Too  absolute  for  nature,  logical 
To  austerity  in  the  application  of 
The  special  theory  :  not  a  soul  content 
To  paint  a  crooked  pollard  and  an  ass, 
As  the  English  will  because  they  find  it  so, 
And  hke  it  somehow. — Ah,  the  old  Tuileries 
Is  pulling  its  high  cap  down  on  its  eyes, 
Confounded,  conscience-stricken,  and  amazed 
By  the  apparition  of  a  new  fair  face 
In  those  devouring  mirrors.    Through  the  grate. 
Within  the  gardens,  what  a  heap  of  babes. 
Swept  up  like  leaves  beneath  the  chestnut-trees. 
From  every  street  and  alley  of  the  town. 
By  the  ghosts  perhaps,  that  blow  too  bleak  this  way 
A-looking  for  their  heads  !    Dear  pretty  babes  ; 
I'll  wish  them  luck  to  have  their  ball-play  out 
Before  the  next  change  comes.— And,  farther  on. 
What  statues,  poised  upon  their  columns  fine, 
As  if  to  stand  a  moment  were  a  feat. 
Against  that  blue  !    What  squares  !  what  breathing- 
room 
For  a  nation  that  runs  fast, — ay,  runs  against 
The  dentist's  teeth  at  the  corner,  in  pale  rows. 
Which  grin  at  progress  in  an  epigram. 

ELIZABETH    BARRETT   BROWNING. 

EULOGY  OF  PARIS 

I  AM  now  upon  the  fair  continent  of  France,  one  of 
nature's  choicest  masterpieces,  one  of  Ceres'  chiefest 


IN  PRAISE  OF  PARIS  45 

barns  for  corn,  one  of  Bacchus'  prime  wine  cellars  and 
of  Neptune's  best  salt  pits  ;  a  complete  self-sufficient 
country,  where  there  is  rather  a  superfluity  than 
defect  of  anything,  either  for  necessity  or  pleasure  ; 
did  the  policy  of  the  country  correspond  with  the 
bounty  of  nature  in  the  equal  distribution  of  the 
wealth  amongst  the  inhabitants,  for  I  think  there  is 
not  upon  the  earth  a  richer  country  and  poorer  people. 
.  .  .  Paris  [is  a]  huge  magazine  of  men,  the  epitome 
of  this  large  populous  kingdom  and  rendezvous  of  all 
foreigners.  ...  I  believe  this  city  is  not  so  populous 
as  she  seems  to  be,  for  her  form  being  round  (as  the 
whole  kingdom  is)  the  passengers  wheel  about  and 
meet  oftener  than  they  use  to  do  in  the  long  continued 
streets  of  London,  which  makes  London  appear  less 
populous  than  she  is  indeed,  so  that  London  for 
length  (though  not  for  latitude),  including  West- 
minster, exceeds  Paris,  and  hath  in  Michaelmas  term 
more  souls  moving  witliin  her  in  all  places.  It  is 
under  one  hundred  years  that  Paris  is  become  so 
sumptuous  and  strong  in  buildings  ;  for  her  houses 
v/ere  mean  until  a  mine  of  white  stone  was  discovered 
hard  by,  which  runs  in  a  continued  vein  of  earth  and 
is  digged  out  with  ease,  being  soft,  and  is-  between  a 
white  clay  and  chalk  at  first,  but  being  pullicd  up, 
with  the  open  air  it  receives  a  crusty  kind  of  hardness 
and  so  becomes  perfect  freestone  ;  and  before  it  is 
sent  up  from  the  pit  they  can  reduce  it  to  any  form. 
Of  this  stone  the  Louvre,  the  king's  palace,  is  built, 
which  is  a  vast  fabric,  for  the  gallery  wants  not  much 
of  an  Italian  mile  in  length,  and  will  easily  lodge 
3,000  men,  which  some  told  me  was  the  end  for  wliich 
the  last  king  made  it  so  big,  that  lying  at  the  fag-end 
of  this  great  mutinous  city,  if  she  perchance  should 


46  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

rise,  the  king  might  pour  out  of  the  Louvre  so  many 
thousand  men  unawares  into  the  heart  of  her. 

I  am  lodged  here  hard  by  the  Bastile,  because  it  is 
furthest  off  from  those  places  where  the  EngUsh 
resort,  for  I  would  go  on  to  get  a  Httle  language  as 
soon  as  I  could.  ,  .  . 

I  never  enjoyed  my  health  better,  but  I  was  hke 
to  endanger  it  two  nights  ago ;  for  being  in  some 
jovial  company  abroad,  and  coming  late  to  our 
lodging,  we  were  suddenly  surprised  by  a  crew  of 
filous,  or  night  rogues,  who  drew  upon  us,  and  as  we 
had  exchanged  some  blows,  it  pleased  God  the 
Chevalieur  de  Guet,  an  officer  who  goes  up  and  down 
the  streets  all  night  on  horseback  to  prevent  dis- 
orders, passed  by,  and  so  rescued  us  ;  but  Jack  White 
was  hurt,  and  I  had  two  thrusts  in  my  cloak.  There 
is  never  a  night  passeth  but  some  robbing  or  murder 
is  committed  in  this  town,  so  that  it  is  not  safe  to  go 
late  anjrwhere,  specially  about  the  Pont-Neuf,  the 
New  Bridge,  though  Henry  the  Great  himself  Ues 
sentinel  there  in  arms,  upon  a  huge  Florentine  horse, 
and  sits  bare  to  everyone  that  passeth,  an  improper 
posture  methinks  to  a  king  on  horseback.  Not  long 
since,  one  of  the  secretaries  of  State  (whereof  there 
are  here  always  four)  having  been  invited  to  the 
suburbs  of  Saint  Germains  to  supper,  left  order  with 
one  of  his  lackeys  to  bring  him  his  horse  about  nine. 
It  so  happened,  that  a  mischance  befell  the  horse, 
which  lamed  him  as  he  went  a  watering  to  the  Seine, 
insomuch  that  the  secretary  was  put  to  beat  the  hoof 
himself,  and  foot  it  home  ;  but  as  he  was  passing  the 
Pont-Neuf  with  his  lackey  carrjdng  a  torch  before 
him,  he  might  overhear  a  noise  of  clashing  of  swords 
and  fighting,  and  looking  under  the  torch  and  per- 


IX  PRAISE  OF  PARIS  47 

ceiving  they  were  but  two,  he  bade  his  lackey  go  on  ; 
they  had  not  made  many  paces,  but  two  armed  men, 
with  their  pistols  cocked  and  swords  drawn,  made 
puffing  towards  them,  whereof  one  had  a  paper  in 
his  hand,  which  he  said  he  had  casually  took  up  in 
the  streets,  and  the  dii^erence  between  them  was 
about  that  paper ;  therefore  they  desired  the  secre- 
tary to  read  it,  with  a  great  deal  of  compliment.  The 
secretary  took  out  his  spectacles  and  fell  a  reading 
of  the  said  paper,  whereof  the  substance  was  :  '  That 
it  should  be  known  to  all  men,  that  whosoever  did 
pass  over  that  bridge  after  nine  o'clock  at  night  in 
winter,  and  ten  in  summer,  was  to  leave  his  cloak 
behind  him,  and  in  case  of  no  cloak  his  hat.'  The 
secretary  starting  at  this,  one  of  the  comrades  told 
him  that  he  thought  that  paper  concerned  him  ;  so 
they  unmantled  liim  of  a  new  plush  cloak,  and  my 
secretary  was  content  to  go  home  quietly,  and  en 
cuerpo.  This  makes  me  think  often  of  the  excellent 
nocturnal  government  of  our  city  of  London,  where 
one  may  pass  and  repass  securely  all  hours  of  the 
night,  if  he  give  good  words  to  the  watch.  There  is  a 
gentle  calm  of  peace  now  throughout  all  France,  and 
the  king  intends  to  make  a  progress  to  all  the  frontier 
towns  of  the  kingdom,  to  see  how  they  are  fortified. 
The  favourite,  Luines,  strengthcncth  himself  more 
and  more  in  his  minionship,  but  he  is  much  murmured 
at  in  regard  the  access  of  suitors  to  him  is  so  difficult, 
which  made  a  lord  of  this  land  say,  '  That  three  of  the 
hardest  things  in  the  world  were,  to  quadiat  a  circle, 
to  find  out  the  philosopher's  stone,  and  to  speak  with 
the  Duke  of  Luines.' 

JAMES   HOWELL   (1620). 


48  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS  . 

AN  APPEAL  TO  PARIS 
October,   1847. 

Beautiful  Paris  !  morning  star  of  nations  ! 
The  Lucifer  of  cities  !    Lifting  high 
The  beacon  blaze  of  young  democracy  ! 
Medina  and  Gomorrha  both  in  one — 
Medina  of  a  high  and  holy  creed, 
To  be  developed  in  a  coming  time. 

.  .  .  Soaring  Paris, 
Laden  with  intellect,  and  yet  not  wise  : — 
MetropoHs  of  satire  and  lampoon, 
Of  wit  and  elegance,  of  mirth,  of  song, 
And  fearful  tragedies  done  day  by  day, 
Which  put  our  hair  on  end  in  the  open  streets.  .  . 
Beautiful  Paris  !  sacred  to  our  hearts, 
With  all  thy  folly,  all  thy  wickedness, 
If  but  for  Bailly,  Vergniaud,  Gensonne, 
And  noblest  Roland,  she  of  Roman  soul. 
And  the  great  patriots  and  the  friends  of  man 
Who  went  to  death  for  holy  Hberty. 
Lift  up  thy  voice,  oh,  Paris  !  once  again, 
And  speak  the  thought  that  labours  in  thy  breast. 
Shake  off  thy  gauds  and  tinsels — be  thyself ;  .  .  . 
And  in  the  conflict  and  the  march  of  men 
Do  justice  to  thy  nature,  and  complete 
The  glorious  work,  so  gloriously  begun 
By  the  great  souls  of  pregnant  'eighty-nine. 
Come  forth,  oh,  Paris  !  freed  from  vice  and  stain. 
Like  a  young  warrior,  dallying  too  long 
With  loving  women,  wasting  precious  hours 
In  base  dehghts  and  enervating  sloth. 
Who,  when  he  shakes  them  off,  puts  back  his  hair 
From  liis  broad  brow,  and  places  on  his  head 


IN  PRAISE  OF  PARIS  49 

The  plumed  helmet — throws  his  velvet  off, 
And  swathes  his  vigorous  limbs  in  glancing  steel, 
To  lead  true  hearts  to  struggle  for  mankind. 
Or  if  no  more,  soldier  of  Hberty, 
Thou'lt  lead  the  nations — stand  upon  the  hill, 
And,  like  a  prophet,  preach  a  holy  creed 
Of  freedom,  progress,  peace  and  happiness  ; 
And  all  the  world  shall  Usten  to  thy  voice, 
And  Tyranny,  hyena  big  with  young 
Dreading  the  sound,  shall  farrow  in  affright, 
And  drop,  still-born,  her  sanguinary  cubs, 
And  many  a  bloody  feud  be  spared  mankind, 
Poland  again,  with  desperate  grasp,  shall  seize 
The  neck  of  her  enslaver,  and  extort 
Full  justice  from  his  terror — Hungary, 
Ermined  and  crown'd,  shall  sit  in  her  own  seat 
In  peaceful  state  and  sober  majesty. 
And  Italy,  unloosening  her  bonds 
By  her  strong  will,  shall  be  at  last  the  home 
Of  broadly  based  and  virtuous  liberty  ; 
And  in  her  bosom  nurture  evermore 
Not  the  fierce  virtues  of  her  Roman  youth, 
But  the  calm  blessings  of  her  later  time^ 
Science  and  art,  and  civilizing  trade. 
Divine  philosophy,  diviner  song, 
And  true  religion  reconciled  with  man. 
Speak  out,  oh,  Paris  !    Purify  thyself 
By  noble  thoughts,  and  deeds  will  follow  them. 
The  world  has  need  of  thee.    Humanity 
Mourns  for  thy  dalliance  with  degraded  things, 
AUen,  and  most  unworthy  of  the  soul 
That  sleeps  within  thee.    Rouse  thyself,  oh,  Paris  ! 
The  Time  expects  thee.    Pyrenees,  and  Alps, 
And  Apennines,  and  snow-clad  Balkans,  wait, 

4 


50  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

With  all  their  echoes,  to  repeat  the  words 

Which  thou  must  utter  !    Thou  hast  slumber'd  long, — 

Long  dallied.    Speak  !    The  world  wiU  answer  thee  ! 

CHARLES  MACKAY. 


MISS  BIDDY  FUDGE  WRITES  TO  MISS  DOROTHY 
FROM  PARIS 

What  a  time  since  I  wrote  ! — I'm  a  sad,  naughty 

girl- 
Though,  like  a  tee-totum,  I'm  all  in  a  twirl, 
Yet  even  (as  you  wittily  say)  a  tee-totum 
Between  all  its  twirls  gives  a  letter  to  note  'em. 
But,  Lord,  such  a  place  !  and  then,  Dolly,  my  dresses, 
My  gowns,  so  divine  ! — there's  no  language  expresses, 
Except  just  the  two  words  '  superbe,'  '  magnifique,' 
The  trimmings  of  that  which  I  had  home  last  week  ! 
It  is  called — I  forget — d  la — something  which  sounded 
Like  alicampane — but,  in  truth,  I'm  confounded 
And  bothered,  my  dear,  'twixt  that  troublesome  boy's 
(Bob's)  cookery  language,  and  Madame  le  Roi's  : 
What  with  fillets  of  roses,  and  fillets  of  veal. 
Things  garni  with  lace,  and  things  garni  with  eel, 
One's  hair  and  one's  cutlets  both  en  papillote, 
And  a  thousand  more  things  I  shall  ne'er  have  by  rote, 
I  can  scarce  teU  the  difference,  at  least  as  to  phrase. 
Between  beef  d  la  Psyche  and  curls  d  la  braise. — 
But,  in  short,  dear,  I'm  tricked  out  quite  a  la  Fran- 

9aise. 
With  my  bonnet — so  beautiful ! — high  up  and  poking. 
Like  things   that  are  put  to  keep  chimneys  from 
smoking. 
Where  shall  I  begin  with  the  endless  dehghts 
Of  this  Eden  of  milliners,  monkeys,  and  sights — 


IN  PRAISE  OF  PARIS  51 

This  dear  busy  place,  where  there's  nothing  transacting, 
But  dressing  and  dinnering,  dancing  and  acting  ? 
Imprimis,  the  Opera — mercy,  my  ears  ! 

Brother  Bobby's  remark,  t'other  night,  was  a  true 
one  ; — 
'  This  must  be  the  music,'  said  he,  '  of  the  spears, 

For  I'm  curst  if  each  note  of  it  doesn't  run  through 
one  !' 
Pa  says  (and  you  know,  love,  his  Book's  to  make  out 
'Twas  the  Jacobins  brought  every  mischief  about) 
That  this  passion  for  roaring  has  come  in  of  late 
Since  the  rabble  all  tried  for  a  voice  in  the  State. — 
What  a  frightful  idea,  one's  mind  to  o'erwhelm  ! 

What  a  chorus,  dear  Dolly,  would  soon  be  let  loose 
of  it, 
If,  when  of  age,  every  man  in  the  realm 

Had  a  voice  like  old  Lais,  and  chose  to  make  use  of  it ! 
No — never  was  known  in  tliis  riotous  sphere 
Such  a  breach  of  the  peace  as  their  singing,  my  dear. 
So  bad  too,  you'd  swear  that  the  God  of  both  arts, 

Of  Music  and  Physic,  had  taken  a  frolic 
For  setting  a  loud  fit  of  asthma  in  parts, 

And  composing  a  fine  rumbhng  base  to  a  cholic  ! 

But,  the  dancing — ah  parlez-moi,  Dolly,  de  ga — 
There,  indeed,  is  a  treat  that  charms  all  but  Papa. 
Such  beauty — such  grace — oh  ye  sylphs  of  romance, 

Fly,  fly  to  Titania,  and  ask  her  if  she  has 
One  Light-footed  nymph  in  her  train,  that  can  dance 

Like  divine  Bigottini  and  sweet  Fanny  Bias  ! 
Fanny  Bias  in  Flora — dear  creature  ! — you'd  swear, 

When  her  delicate  feet  in  the  dance  twinkle  round. 
That  her  steps  are  of  light,  that  her  home  is  the  air. 

And  she  only  far  complaisance  touches  the  ground. 

4—2 


52  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

And  when  Bigottini  in  Psyche  dishevels 

Her  black  flowing  hair,  and  by  daemons  is  driven, 
Oh  !  who  does  not  envy  those  rude  little  devils, 
That  hold  her  and  hug  her,  and  keep  her  from 
heaven  ? 
Then,  the  music — so  softly  its  cadences  die. 
So  divinely — oh,  Dolly  !  between  you  and  I, 
It's  as  well  for  my  peace  that  there's  nobody  nigh 
To  make  love  to  me  then — you've  a  soul,  and  can  judge 
What   a   crisis   'twould   be   for   your   friend   Biddy 
Fudge  !  .  .  . 

Last  night,  at  the  Beaujon,  a  place  where — I  doubt 
If  I  well  can  describe — there  are  cars,  that  set  out 
From  a  Hghted  pavihon,  high  up  in  the  air, 
And  rattle  you  down,  Doll, — you  hardly  know  where. 
These  vehicles,  mind  me,  in  which  you  go  through 
This  dehghtfully  dangerous  journey,  hold  two. 
Some  cavaher  asks,  with  humihty,  whether 

You'll  venture  down  with  him — you  smile — 'tis  a 
match  : 
In  an  instant  you're  seated,  and  down  both  together 

Go  thundering,  as  if  you  went  post  to  old  Scratch  ! 
Well,  it  was  but  last  night,  as  I  stood  and  remarked 
On  the  looks  and  odd  ways  of  the  girls  who  embarked. 
The  impatience  of  some  for  the  perilous  flight, 
The   forced   giggly   of   others,    'twixt   pleasure   and 

fright,— 
That  there  came  up — imagine,  dear  Doll,  if  you  can — 
A  fine  sallow,  subhme,  sort  of  Werter-faced  man. 
With  mustachios  that  gave  (what  we  read  of  so  oft) 
The  dear  Corsair  expression,  half  savage,  half  soft. 
As  Hyaenas  in  love  may  be  fancied  to  look,  or 
A  something  between  Abelard  and  old  Blucher  I 


IN  PRAISE  OF  PARIS  53 

Up  he  came,  Doll,  to  me,  and,  uncovering  his  head 
(Rather  bald,  but  so  warhke  !),  in  bad  English  said, 
'  Ah  !  my  dear — if  Ma'mselle  vil  be  so  very  good — 
Just  for  von  Uttel  course  ' — though  I  scarce  under- 
stood 
What  he  wished  me  to  do,  I  said,  thank  him,  I  would. 
Off  we  set— and,  though  'faith,  dear,  I  hardly  knew 
whether 

My  head  or  my  heels  were  the  uppermost  then. 
For    'twas   Hke   heaven    and   earth,    Dolly,    coming 
together, — 

Yet,  spite  of  the  danger,  we  dared  it  again. 
And  oh  !  as  I  gazed  on  the  features  and  air 

Of  the  man,  who  for  me  all  this  peril  defied, 
I  could  fancy  almost  he  and  I  were  a  pair 

Of  unhappy  young  lovers,  who  thus,  side  by  side, 
Were  taking,  instead  of  rope,  pistol,  or  dagger,  a 
Desperate  dash  down  the  Falls  of  Niagara  ! 

This  achieved,   through   the  gardens  we  sauntered 
about, 
Saw   the   fireworks,    exclaimed   '  magnifique !'     at 
each  cracker. 
And,  when  'twas  all  o'er,  the  dear  man  saw  us  out 
With  the  air,  I  will  say,  of  a  Prince,  to  our  fiacre. 

Now,  hear  me — this  Stranger — it  may  be  mere  folly — 
But  who  do  you  think  we  all  think  it  is,  Dolly  ? 
Why,  bless  you,  no  less  than  the  great  King  of  Prussia, 
Who's  here  now  incog. — he  who  made  such  a  fuss,  you 
Remember,  in  London,  with  Blucher  and  Platoff, 
When  Sal  was  near  kissing  old  Bluchcr's  cravat  off ! 
Pa  says  he's  come  here  to  look  after  his  money 
(Not  taking  things  now  as  he  used  under  Boney), 


54  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

Which  suits  wdth  our  friend,  for  Bob  saw  him,  he 

swore, 
Looking  sharp  to  the  silver  received  at  the  door. 
Besides,  too,  they  say  that  his  grief  for  his  Queen 
(Which  was  plain  in  this  sweet  fellow's  face  to  be  seen) 
Requires  such  a  stimulant  dose  as  this  car  is, 
Used  three  times  a  day  with  young  ladies  in  Paris. 
Some  Doctor,  indeed,  has  declared  that  such  grief 
Should — unless  'twould  to  utter  despairing  its  folly 
push — 
Fly  to  the  Beaujon,  and  there  seek  relief 

By  rattling,  as  Bob  says,  *  like  shot  through  a  holly- 
bush.' 

I  must  now  bid  adieu — only  think,  Dolly,  think 

If  this  should  be  the  King — I  have  scarce  slept  a  wink 

With  imagining  how  it  will  sound  in  the  papers. 

And  how  all  the  Misses  my  good  luck  will  grudge, 
When  they  read  that  Count  Ruppin,  to  drive  away 
vapours. 

Has  gone  down  the  Beaujon  with  Miss  Biddy  Fudge. 

THOMAS   MOORE. 

'  THE  AUTOCRAT  '  ON  PARIS 

There  is  that  glorious  Epicurean  paradox,  uttered 
by  my  friend  the  Historian,  in  one  of  his  flashing 
moments  : — 

'  Give  us  the  luxuries  of  life,  and  we  will  dispense 
with  its  necessaries.' 

To  these  must  certainly  be  added  that  other  saying 
of  one  of  the  wittiest  of  men  : — 

'  Good  Americans,  when  they  die,  go  to  Paris.' 

— The  divinity-student  looked  grave  at  this,  but 
said  nothing. 


IN  PRAISE  OF  PARIS  55 

The  schoolmistress  spoke  out,  and  said  she  didn't 
think  the  wit  meant  any  irreverence.  It  was  only 
another  way  of  saying,  Paris  is  a  heavenly  place  after 
New  York  or  Boston.  .  .  . 

Cockneys  think  London  is  the  only  place  in  the 
world.  Frenchmen — you  remember  the  line  about 
Paris,  the  Court,  the  World,  etc.  I  recollect  well,  by 
the  way,  a  sign  in  that  city  which  ran  thus  :  '  Hotel  de 
rUnivers  et  des  Etats  Unis  ;'  .  .  .  Paris  is  the  uni- 
verse to  a  Frenclmian. 

OLIVER   WENDELL    HOLMES. 


PARIS  THE  ENCHANTRESS 

Oh  !  Paris,  Paris,  Lydian  queen  !  what  fascination 
thine  ! 

No  avenues,  but  Elysium  ;  no  pleasures  but  divine  ! 

What  though  thy  rich  museums  boast  the  master- 
works  of  Greece, 

Thine  animated  canvas  glow  wherever  Art's  caprice 

Dispose,  thy  gorgeous  tapestries  contend  with  Joy  for 
fame 

And  spur  the  alien  postulant  to  glory  and  a  name  ; 

Against  thy  soft,  Circean  wiles  no  moly  can  pre- 
vail ; 

The  bravest  sailor  rests  his  oars  and  pleads  Ulysses' 
tale  : 

The  pallid  student  paler  grows,  ambitions  falt'ring 
stay, 

Irresolute,  half-satisfied  in  am'rous,  sweet  delay ; 

For  Pleasure  fills  their  tugging  sails  :  upon  her  siren 
shore 

They  leaping  bound,  partaking  reel,  and  Lliurt  is  no 
more.  .  .  . 


56  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

0  refuge  of  celebrities  !  but  in  thy  fostering  sight, 
Banished  the  baneful  fogs  of  doubt ;  discerned  the 

fading  hght : 
Thy  presence  round  his  trembling  hopes  the  genio 

feels  to  move 
And  o'er  his  tides  of  joy  and  fear  this  promise  of  thy 

love  : 
'  How  many  the  long-forgotten  Uve  at  Art's  supreme 

behest, 
Many  the  stones  and  canvases  in  peerless  lines  attest. 
The  pouting  hp,  the   glowing   breast,  the  rounded 

limb  must  die, 
But  Art  preserves  what  futile  pray'r  and  transient 

love  deny. 
Love  only  can  their  sweetness  save  from  the  marauder 

Time 
When  wed  to  that  which  Art  subserves,  the  chisel, 

brush,  and  rhyme.' 

G.   J.   TRARES. 

PARIS  :  PRE-EMINENT  OF  CITIES 

1  LIKE  the  great  town  which  combines  all  the  advan- 
tages and  attractions  of  human  industry ;  where 
polished  manners  and  enlightened  minds  are  found ; 
where,  amidst  the  vast  population,  one  may  expect  to 
meet  with  a  friend  and  to  form  desirable  acquaint- 
ances ;  where  one  can  be  lost,  if  need  be,  in  the  crowd, 
be  at  once  respected,  untrammelled  and  unnoticed, 
following  the  bent  of  one's  inchnation  or  changing  it 
unobtrusively ;  where  everything  can  be  chosen  and 
arranged  and  adopted  with  no  other  judges  than  the 
persons  who  truly  know  us.  Paris  is  the  capital  which 
unites  all  town-advantages  in  the  highest  degree,  and 
hence,  though  I  have  most  probably  quitted  it  for 


IN  PRAISE  OF  PARIS  57 

ever,  I  cannot  be  surprised  that  so  many  persons  of 
taste  and  sensibility  prefer  it  to  any  other  abode. 

If  unfitted  for  the  occupations  of  the  country,  one  is 
aUen  therein,  the  requisite  faculties  are  wanting  for  the 
life  that  has  been  chosen,  and  we  are  conscious  that  we 
should  have  done  better  in  another  condition,  though, 
at  the  same  time,  we  might  have  appreciated  or  ap- 
proved it  less.  Rural  pursuits  are  necessary  for  a  rural 
life,  and  they  can  scarcely  be  adopted  when  youth  is 
no  longer  ours.  We  need  arms  capable  of  toil,  we  must 
take  interest  in  planting,  grafting  and  haymaking 
with  our  own  hands,  and  we  must  be  fond  of  hunting 
or  fishing.  Otherwise  we  are  out  of  our  element,  and 
likely  to  say  to  ourselves  :  '  At  Paris  I  should  experi- 
ence no  such  discomfort ;  my  habits  would  be  in  con- 
formity with  my  environment,  though  neither  might 
harmonize  with  my  real  tastes.'  Thus  our  place  in 
the  order  of  the  world  is  lost  when  we  have  been 
separated  from  it  too  long. 

ixiENNE    PIVERT   DE    SENANCOUR. 

Translated  by  Arthur  E.  Watte. 

PARIS  :  AN  ESTIMATE 

Englishmen  admire  Paris ;  they  speak  of  it  as  a  beauti- 
ful city,  even  a  delightful  city  ;  but  there  is  one  point 
on  which  a  Frencliman's  estimate  of  Paris  usually 
differs  from  that  of  an  Englishman.  I  am  not  alluding 
to  the  Frenchman's  patriotic  affection  for  the  place  ; 
that,  of  course,  an  Englishman  cannot  have,  and  can 
only  realize  by  the  help  of  powerful  sympathies  and  a 
lively  imagination.  I  am  alluding  to  a  difference  in  the 
impression  made  by  the  place  itself  on  the  mind  of  a 
French  and  English  visitor.  The  Englishman  thinks 
that  Paris  is  pretty  ;  the  Frcncliman  thinks  that  it  is 


58  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

sublime.  The  Englishman  admits  that  it  is  an  impor- 
tant city,  though  only  of  moderate  dimensions  ;  the 
Frenchman  beheves  it  to  be  an  immensity,  and  uses 
such  words  as  '  huge  '  and  '  gigantic  '  with  reference  to 
it,  as  we  do  with  reference  to  London.  .  .  . 

True  lovers  of  Paris  .  .  ,  take  a  keen  deHght  in 
those  broad  trottoirs  of  the  Boulevards.  They  walk 
upon  them  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  being  there  till  ab- 
solute weariness  compels  them  to  sit  down  before  a 
cafe  ;  and  when  the  feehngs  of  exhaustion  are  over, 
they  rise  to  tire  themselves  again,  Uke  a  girl  at  a  ball. 
They  tell  one  that  the  mere  sensation  of  the  Parisian 
asphaltum  under  the  feet  is  an  excitement  itself,  so 
that  when  aided  by  '  Uttle  glasses  '  in  the  moments  of 
rest  at  the  cafes,  it  must  be  positively  intoxicating. 
These  true  lovers  of  Paris  are  most  enchanted  with 
those  parts  of  the  Boulevards  where  the  crowd  is 
always  so  dense  that  all  freedom  of  emotion  is  impos- 
sible, where  half  the  foot- way  is  occupied  by  thousands 
of  cafe  chairs  and  the  other  half  by  a  closely- packed 
multitude  of  loungers.  The  favourite  places  appear  to 
be  the  Boulevard  des  ItaHens  and  the  Boulevard 
Montmartre.  The  shops  are,  in  fact,  a  great  permanent 
exhibition  of  industry  and  the  fine  arts,  wonderfully 
lighted  at  night,  and  very  attractive  to  those  who  visit 
Paris  on  rare  occasions. 

PHILIP  GILBERT   HAMERTON. 


PARIS  :  A  PARISIAN'S  APOLOGY 

O  MON  DiEu  !     What  a  city  this  Paris, 

For  Gods  and  for  men  ! 
All's  Romance,  from  our  Dame  of  the  City, 

To  the  corpse  in  the  Seine. 


IN  PRAISE  OF  PARIS  59 

By  the  way — yon's  the  room  where  my  wife  lay, 

Ere  old  Pere  Lachaise 
Took  her  home  ;  we'd  four  nuns  with  pink  candles 

Whose  smoke  filled  the  place  ; 
When  'twas  over,  the  body  weD  buried. 

Nigh  thi-^se  of  great  hearts, 
Abelard  down  to  Marie  Bashkirtseff, 

I  summoned  lost  arts, 
AH  my  music,  her  tattered  Beethoven, 

Took  down  from  the  press, 
Played  the  '  Moonlight  Sonata,'  as  she  did. 

With  better  '  finesse.' 
Then  I  burst  into  tears,  with  much  pleasure 

In  doing  the  same, 
As  I  saw  how  our  noblest  and  dearest 

Returns  whence  it  came. 
Now  her  soul's  part  of  Paris,  and  therefore 

I  love  the  old  town, 
And  my  views,  in  the  Odeon  sitting, 

I  write  them  all  down. 
Here's  much  Earth,  and  more  Hell,  and  most  Heaven, 

Here's  France  in  small  scale, 
And  the  world  in  a  smaller  than  ever, — 

Though  parallels  fail, 
Touching  France  (says  the  poet  of  England), 

'  Where  men  are  not  free,' 
Who'd  have  thought  it  ?     But  Lucrece,  when  dying, 

'  What's  Duty  ?'  says  he. 
So  what's  Freedom  ?     I've  got  all  there  is.     Yes, 

And  e'en  something  more. 
'Twas  a  word  not  unknown  to  republics 

Like  ours,  years  before. 
What  a  pity  the  Lord  of  the  Ages, 

Ere  Earth's  crust  was  diied. 


6o  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

When  He  held  the  great  Court  of  Creation, 

Left  Swinburne  outside. 
Even  Buonaparte  would  have  had  Freedom, 

Had  he  made  complete 
All  his  schemes.     (Half  seemed  tyrannous  mania 

Deserving  defeat.) 
For  his  men — Christ  be  with  them,  hear  for  them 

The  prayers  that  were  said  ; 
For  they  died  standing  up,  and  they  were  not, 

No,  they  were  not  afraid, 
Though  WelUngton,  Europe  abetting, — 

All  nose  and  no  soul. 
Kept  them  back  from  his  vantage  fore-chosen, 

Till  the  halves  were  made  whole. 
And  our  Great  Little  man  caught  between  them, 

As  any  had  been. — 
But  at  Austerlitz  what  would  the  other 

Of  chances  have  seen  ? 
Ten  years  back,  'gainst  the  height  of  that  genius  ? 

Pain,  drugs  on  this  day 
Did  the  trick  :  why  the  dog  from  his  vomit 

Faint  lions  might  slay. 
All  Saints  help  them, — they  died  standing  up. 

And  they  were  not  afraid  ! 
What  at  Brussels  might  think  the  old  Bourbon, 

As  balances  swayed  ? 
Horse  and  foot,  how  they  laughed  at  the  hell-storm, 

How  Pepin-hke  smote  ! 
Of  whom,  '  Our  fierce  cheering  appalled  them,' 

The  English  scribes  wrote. 
Oh,  did  it  ?     The  men  who  a-dying 

Caught  hold  of  the  guns. 
Bent  with  heat  ! — Oh,  appalled  them  Uke  rabbits 

You  kill  in  the  runs  ?  .   .   . 


IX  PRAISE  OF  PARIS  6i 

No,  there's  hope  for  us  yet,  us  decadents, 

Sins,  absinthe,  and  ail. 
Nor,  though  Seeley  unite  his  young  lions, 

In  terror  we'll  fall ;  . 

And  their  Empire  whose  suns  ne'er  go  setting. 

Whose  drums  nev-er  cease. 
Their  sublime  Ethnologic  Museum, 

Shan't  cow  us  to  peace. 
First,  we'll  bury  the  axe  with  our  neighbours, 

And  prove  an  we  Ust, 
That  other  than  one  civilization 

Has  rights  to  exist. 
Yes,  we've  rights  to  exist.     O  my  Pans, 

I  love  you  so  well. 
As  I  crimson  with  fruit  of  the  Northland 

The  great  beer-glass'  bell, 
In  the  Odeon's  shade  where  Saint-Beuve  sat. 

When  labour  was  done — 
Ah,  there  Renan  went  by  with  the  panes  up, 

The  horse  at  a  run  ! 
Who  was  with  him  ?    The  cream  of  our  Science, 

I  thought.     But  there  now 
Was  the  Bernhardt,  half  a  flock's  plumage 

Anod  on  her  brow  ! 
Then  that  man  at  the  editor's — German  ! 

Oh,  where  did  we  meet  ? 
Not  at  Gratz — but  in  some  life  ere  this  one, 

Perhaps  in  a  street. 
I'm  not  mad — nor  a  Buddhist,  believe  me, 

But  how  shut  my  eyes 
To  some  strange  person's  aspect  familiar. 

And  want  of  surprise. 
At  strange  towns  not  encountered  in  pictures, 

The  feeling  of  home. 


62  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

And  the  guess  at  what's  round  the  next  corner  ? 

There's  no  proof,  but  a  sum 
Of  things  touching  it,  e'en  as  in  law-courts, 

When  no  crime  was  seen, 
There's  a  score  of  linked  likelihoods  raising 

The  dread  guillotine. 
I,  one  night  in  the  house  of  Cassagnac, 

Met  a  Russian  that  shone. 
And,  not  sure  what  he'd  say,  when  he'd  said  it, 

Felt  I  ought  to  have  kno\\Ti. 
Yes,  'tis  strange,  all  this  Life,  as  we  call  it. 

Unsure  what  we  mean. 
Or  a  thing,  or  a  force,  or  if  endless 

'Twill  be  or  has  been. 
Queen  Fredegonde  passed  in  her  ox-wain, 

Twelve  centuries  back. 
The  same  spot  where  from  Luxembourg  councils 

Jules  Favre  drives  a  hack. 
At  the  same  time  as  on  the  Quai  D'Orsay 

Gladstone  chats  with  Verlaine, 
While  the  Hirondelles  carry  fiancees 

Love-sick  down  the  Seine. 
Gladstone,  Fredegonde,  Favre,  Verlaine,  lovers 

Seem  marionettes 
To  my  brain,  borne  up  whence  the  ebb-tide 

Of  Memory  sets. 
And  mix  with  the  maddest  of  persons,— 

Autumn  nights  at  Vincennes, — 
An  explorer  in  Egypt,— fay-castles 

In  Anglian  fen, — 
And  a  banquet  in  Greece,— and  a  schoolboy 

In  seventy-two 
Leaving  London,— observers  in  Berlin  ! 
What's  Gladstone  to  do 


IX  PRAISE  OF  PARIS  63 

In  that  galley  with  them  ?     God  knows.     I  don't. 

They  spring  from  one  cell 
In  my  brain  ?     My  brain — Greece — Favre — yon 
actress 

Were  one  cell  as  well ! 
And  my  mind  probes  the  strangest  of  questions, — 

A  face  in  the  train, 
On  a  date — say,  tenth  June,  Sixty-Seven. 

Lost  women  and  men. 
I  watch  them  like  God,  when  I've  absinthe, 

And  space  fades  Uke  breath, 
And  long  hours  gone  by  incUne  contours 

Toward  Uves  after  death  ! 
There's  the  Arc  de  Triomphe,  Champs  Elysees, 

The  grand  avenue 
Down  which  thundered  the  last  Empire's  glory, 

Beneath  the  hot  blue, 
Banners  going,  cuirassiers  plunging, 

Then  the  bearded  Sphinx-face 
Darkly  smiling,  the  goddess  Eugenie, — 

Mon  Dieu  !     What  a  race  ! 
All  like  flames  of  fire,  piercing  the  dust  cloud. 

The  carriages  went. 
With  ministers  hissed  at  or  cheered  for, 

— Ambassadors  bent 
From  their  rails.     There's  the  Marseillaise  !    Hats  off ! 

What  miles  of  massed  bands  ! 
And  great  guns  where  the  Glass  Palace  haunted 

By  '  cocottes  '  now  stands  ! 
There's  the  Arc  that  felt  vista  that  saw  tliis  : 

That's  gone  !     Will  they  go  ? 
Was  that  real  ?     Are  they  real  ?     Am  I  more  real  ? 

Or,  if  man's  laid  low 
Into  shade,  before  what  he  created, 


64  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

Why  should  not  the  soul 
Aye  survive  the  Good  God's  love  that  loved  it  ? 

As  planets  that  roll, 
All  in  black,  the  bright  sun's  force  that  held  them. 

No  miracles  now  ! 
And  no  Saints,  but  at  Lourdes  !     And  if  all  things 

As  '  savants  '  avow. 
Hold  the  Highest,  why  are  they  but  mortal  ? 

As  well  ask  the  cause. 
Why  all's  secular  up  in  the  spaces 

We  gauge  with  our  laws, 
Why  all's  secular,  quite  disconnected 

From  what  we  call  Church, 
In  man's  growth  from  the  worm, — and  the  species 

Now  left  in  the  lurch 
By  that  growth,  and  imperfectly  perfect ; 

And,  if  all  from  all 
Is  evolved,  what  Sacrifice  grew  from  ? 

Why  '  damn,'  '  save,'  and  '  fall ' 
Are  the  cries  for  two  thousand  years  only. 

When  fully  ten  times 
Ninety-eight  hundred  years,  no  more  fearful, 

Man  died  in  all  climes  ? 
How  the  next  world,  if  real,  is  reUgious  ? 

If  the  laws  won't  hold  true, 
Over  there,  of  our  globe's  gravitation, 

What  of  sins,  hymn-books  too  ? 
But  I  wander,  I  ought  not  to  trouble 

The  brains  I  have  left, 
But  think  were  Earth  worth  habitation, 

Of  Paris  bereft  ? 
Of  Paris,  and  all  that  she  stands  for, 

Her  pleasure  and  prayer, 
Her  knowledge  of  Ages  and  Races, 


''.  \l[Z']Z 


^ 


5 

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^:s 


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IN  PRAISE  OF  PARIS 

Her  incense  in  air  ; 
Of  this  Paris,  where  Labour  is  patient, 

And  fancy  is  sure 
To  develop  incarnate  in  Genius, 

Though  much  is  impure. 
Here's  all  science  and  Life  at  a  gem-point, 

Best  chance  to  gauge  worth, 
Then,  by  suicide's  bier,  from  Notre-Dame's  gloom. 

See  Death  sally  forth. 
Spite  of  harlots,  God's  near  us,  thinks  for  us, — 

If  so  He  exist. 
As  conceived.     Though  spring-madness  attack  us. 

And  foes  as  they  list, 
Hope  to  twist  the  old  Eagle's  tail-feathers, 

We  fear  not  their  cry, — 
But  for  Paris,  and  all  that  she  stands  for, 

A  venture  we'll  try. 
Spite  of  absinthe,  we'll  say  to  the  Old  Guard, 

In  Valhall  arrayed, 
'  Shades  of  heroes,  to  Glory  receive  us, 
Shades  of  heroes,  to  Glory  receive  us. 
Shades  of  heroes,  to  Glory  receive  us. 

For  we  were  not  afraid  !' 

ASH.MORE    WING  ATE. 


IN  THE  FLOWER  MARKET 

I  COULD  not  sleep  last  night,  and,  tired 
Of  turning  on  my  pillow  and  harder  thoughts. 
Went  out  at  early  morning,  when  the  air 
Is  delicate  with  some  last  starry  touch, 
To  wander  through  the  Market-place  of  Flowers 
(The  prettiest  haunt  in  Paris),  and  make  sure 
At  worst,  that  there  were  roses  in  the  world. 

5 


66  THE  CHAR^I  OF  PARIS 

So,  wandering,  musing,  with  the  artist's  eye, 
That  keeps  the  shade  side  of  the  thing  it  loves, 
Half-absent,  whole  observing,  while  the  crowd 
Of  young  vivacious  and  black-braided  heads 
Dipped,  quick  as  finches  in  a  blossomed  tree. 
Among  the  nosegays,  cheapening  this  and  that 
In  such  a  cheerful  twitter  of  rapid  speech, — 
My  heart  leapt  in  me,  startled  by  a  voice 
That,  slowly,  faintly,  with  long  breaths  that  marked 
The  interval  between  the  wish  and  word. 
Inquired  in  stranger's  French,  *  Would  that  be  much. 
That    branch    of    flowering    mountain-gorse  ?' — '  So 

much  ? 
Too  much  for  me,  then  !'  turning  the  face  round 
So  close  upon  me,  that  I  felt  the  sigh 
It  turned  with. 

ELIZABETH   BARRETT   BROWNING. 


THE   STREETS   OF   PARIS 


5—2 


The  Parisian  common  man  has  his  share  of  the  Champs 
£lysees  and  of  the  boulevards  in  his  freedom  of  access  to  their 
fountains  and  promenades  and  their  bordering  alleys  of  tender 
green.  .  .  .  Whatever  the  gloom  of  the  domestic  prospect, 
his  street  helps  him  to  feel  good.  The  beauty  of  the  statuary, 
of  the  public  buildings,  is  a  means  to  the  same  end.  For 
nothing,  the  poorest  of  poor  devils  may  see  the  glorious 
bronzes  in  the  terrace  garden  of  the  Tuileries,  the  outdoor 
figures  of  the  Luxembourg,  the  great  horses  of  the  Place  de  la 
Concorde,  the  magnificent  compositions  of  the  Arch.  The 
very  lamp-post  that  will  light  his  way  at  nightfall  serves  the 
purpose  of  a  thing  of  beauty  all  through  the  day.  .  .  .  The 
boulevard  is  all  life,  and  well-nigh  all  beauty,  in  the  stately 
frontages — beauty  of  high  art  at  Barbedienne's  and  in  the 
picture-shops,  beauty  of  texture  and  dyes,  of  fine  craftsmanship 
in  a  thousand  articles  of  luxury,  in  the  others.  Especially  is 
it  all  life.  The  appeal  to  the  fancy  and  the  imagination  is 
not  to  be  missed  in  its  insistency. 

RICHARD    WHITEING. 

The  street  !  .  .  .  We  walked  through  the  avenues  which 
surround  I'Arc  de  Triomphe  ;  it  was  about  half -past  six — a 
summer's  evening  ;  porters,  children,  errand-boys,  workmen, 
and  women,  all  at  their  doors  or  on  the  public  seats,  or  chatting 
in  front  of  the  wine-shops.  Ah,  what  admirable  pictures  they 
were — really  admirable  !  .  .  .  I  came  in  marvelling  at  the 
streets.  ...  I  think  of  all  this,  Paris  of  the  Champs  filysees, 
and  of  the  Bois,  which  lives. 

MARIE    BASHKIRTSEFF. 

When  a  man  can  contest  the  point  by  dint  of  equipage,  and 
carry  on  all  floundering  before  him  with  half  a  dozen  lacqueys 
and  a  couple  of  cooks — 'tis  very  well  in  such  a  place  as  Paris, — 
he  may  drive  in  at  which  end  of  a  street  he  will. 

LAURENCE    STERNE. 


THE  BOULEVARD 

The  Boulevard  is  the  source  or  the  distributive  centre 
of  all  the  flitting  fancies  of  France.  You  come  here  in 
the  daytime  for  the  sensation  of  the  day.  You  get  it  of  a 
surety,  whatever  else  you  may  miss  ;  and  while  you 
enjoy  it,  hot  and  hot,  truth  seems  but  a  spoil-sport. 
The  art  of  hfe  is,  after  all,  but  an  art  of  impressions  ; 
and  this  impression,  while  it  lasts,  is  sure  to  be  to  your 
taste.  The  Boulevard  asks  no  more.  There  will  be 
something  new  to-morrow  ;  and  what  you  have  is 
sufficient  unto  the  day. 

When  the  Boulevard  ends,  and  the  mere  boulevards 
begin,  the  thing  soon  rights  itself.  At  Poissoniere,  if 
you  go  so  far,  you  take  your  sensation  for  little  more 
than  it  is  worth.  By  the  time  you  have  reached  Bonne 
Xouvelle  you  are  for  crying,  '  What's  in  a  name  ?' 
Yet  these  thoroughfares,  after  all,  are  in  the  grand  line, 
and  for  many  of  the  humbler  sort  they  have  something 
of  its  subtle  charm.  The  countless  boulevards  in  other 
quarters  have  no  such  relations  to  the  pulsing  Hfe  of  the 
city.  There  are  boulevards  of  communication,  boule- 
vards of  industry,  boulevards  of  silence,  meditation, 
and  prayer.  Be  sure,  therefore,  to  see  that  you  get  the 
right  label  when  you  make  your  choice.  Without  this, 
indeed,  you  may  know  the  Boulevard  by  the  composi- 
tion of  its  crowds.  The  appointed  hour  is  the  hour  of 
absinthe,  within  measurable  distance  of  the  time  for 
dinner.  They  arc  sleek  and  stall-fed,  and  they  look 
forward  to  their  meal  with  a  sure  and  certain  hope. 

69 


70  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

With  some,  not  with  many,  the  whole  day  has  been 
httle  more  than  a  preparation  for  this  great  act  of 
hfe.  .  .  . 

The  Boulevard  at  night  is  a  very  different  affair. 
The  later  the  better.  Paris,  though  the  most  northerlj^, 
is  still  one  of  the  Latin  cities,  and  the  Latin  cities  sit 
up  late.  .  .  ,  The  best  of  the  night  hours,  for  Paris,  is 
the  hour  after  the  play.  The  audiences  pour  into  the 
cafes  to  celebrate  with  mild  refreshment  their  recovery 
of  the  atmosphere.  It  is  the  hour  of  high  change  for 
the  affairs  of  the  Boulevard.  A  haze  of  illuminating 
fire  falls  on  a  haze  of  dust  rising  from  the  vexed  pave- 
ment, and — if  one  may  put  it  so — on  a  haze  of  sound. 
The  huge  multitude  has  come  out  to  see  itself.  That  is 
the  spectacle ;  just  that,  and  nothing  more.  The  settled 
swarm  under  the  awnings  of  the  cafes — twenty  deep, 
if  you  carry  your  eye  to  the  indoor  recesses — seem  to 
pass  the  moving  swarm  in  review.  The  pavement,  in 
like  manner,  surveys  the  cafes  on  one  side,  and  on  the 
other  the  busy  road.  It  is  a  promenade  of  curiosity  in 
which,  no  matter  how  often  you  have  seen  it,  you  are 
sure  of  your  reward.  Perhaps  the  seated  crowd  has  the 
best  of  it.  The  others  seem  to  glide  Hke  so  many  figures 
of  the  new-fashioned  scheme  for  painless  locomotion. 
In  this,  as  you  remember,  a  sidewalk  on  wheels  does 
all  the  work,  and  the  wayfarer  has  only  to  keep  still  to 
find  himself  at  his  journey's  end.  The  whole  scene  is 
a  good  deal  better  than  the  play  the  spectators  have 
just  left.  And  there  is  nothing  to  grumble  at  in  the 
price  of  the  seats — a  bock  or  a  sherry-cobbler  not  more 
than  three  hundred  per  cent,  above  cost  price. 

Many  old  stagers  come  here  night  after  night  as 
though  to  stock  their  imagination  with  the  stuff  of 
which  they  hope  to  make  their  dreams.    It  at  once 


THE  STREETS  OF  PARTS  71 

quickens  and  soothes,  with  a  sense  of  Paris  as  the  hub 
of  the  universe  and  the  glory  of  the  world.  And  glory 
of  a  kind  it  is,  in  good  faith.  The  whole  broad  space 
between  the  two  sides  of  the  way  is  filled  with  life  and 
movement.  In  the  space  between  curb  and  curb  you 
have  hundreds  of  light  ramshackle  cabs  rolling  home 
with  their  freight  of  lovers  from  the  Bois,  or  their 
heavier  burden  of  '  blouses,'  packed  six  deep,  and 
vocal  with  the  message  of  the  music-halls.  The  '  vic- 
toria '  is  the  gondola  of  Paris,  with  a  better  title,  per- 
haps, than  the  hansom  is  the  gondola  of  London.  Its 
long  nightly  procession  to  the  Cascade,  thousands 
strong,  is  best  seen  in  the  Champs  Elysees,  all  one  side 
of  the  road  alive  uith  dancing  Hght  from  the  front 
lamps.  As  for  the  occupants,  the  vehicle  is  roofless, ^so 
they  have  nothing  between  them  and  the  stars.  The 
passing  regiment  is  not  wanting,  even  at  this  late 
hour,  as  the  smart  municipal  guards  return  to  barracks 
from  their  service  of  order  at  the  places  of  public  re- 
sort. More  rarely,  at  this  hour,  you  may  see  a  stray 
dragoon  passing  from  late  duty  at  one  of  the  ministries 
to  the  palace  of  the  President.  But  this  is  only  for 
emeigencies.  The  daytime  is  the  best  for  these  huge 
military  postmen,  who  fetch  and  carry  as  a  regular 
thing  between  the  pubhc  offices,  and  whose  pouches 
are  sometimes  laden  with  nothing  more  important 
than  a  three-cornered  note  bidding  an  opera-dancer  to 
lunch. 

But  the  sidewalk  is,  after  all,  the  distinctive  sight  of 
the  Boulevard.  It  is  much  more  than  all  Paris  in  its 
best-known  types,  and  it  might  pass  for  all  France,  or, 
for  that  matter,  all  the  world. 

KICII.VRD    WIIITEING. 


72  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

THE  BOULEVARD  :  NOON 

'Tis  noon  :  the  flags  cling  close  on  roof  and  spire, 
The  sun  burns  fierce,  a  ball  of  living  fire  ; 
The  sky  is  blue — deep,  beautifully  blue  : 
Rises  no  smoke  to  shroud  its  lovely  hue. 
Now  comes  the  idler's  hour.    The  beggar-bard 
Takes  his  old  quarters  on  the  Boulevard  ; 
Beneath  the  trees  the  conjuror  spreads  his  tools  ; 
The  quack  harangues  his  group  of  graver  fools 
In  lofty  lies,  unruffled  by  the  jar 
Thrummed  from  his  neighbour  Savoyard's  guitar  ; 
Veiled  virgins  beam  like  Dian  in  a  mist ; 
Philosophers  show  mites  ;  the  tumblers  twist ; 
Each  the  fix'd  genius  of  some  favourite  tree, 
Dryads  and  fauns  of  GalUc  minstrelsy. 
In  double  glories  now,  the  broad  Marchande, 
Fire-eyed,  her  skin  by  Gascon  summers  tann'd, 
Red  as  the  kerchief  round  her  coal-black  hair, 
Lays  out  her  tempting  treasures  rich  and  rare. 

The  air  grows  furnace-hot ;  flag,  awning,  screen, 
Peep  endless  from  those  lovely  lines  of  green  ; 
Yet  Autumn  has  been  there  ;  the  russet  tinge, 
Deep  purples,  pearly  greys,  the  poplars  fringe  ; 
And  ever  in  the  distance  some  proud  tower 
Looks  out  in  feudal  beauty  from  its  bower. 
All  a  strange  mirthful,  melancholy  show  ; 
Stately  decay  above,  wild  life  below  ! 

GEORGE   CROLY. 

BOULEVARD  AND  BOULEVARDIER 
In  every  great  capital  there  is  some  corner,  some 
spot — a  something — a  promenade,  perhaps,  where  it 


THE  STREETS  OF  PARIS  73 

gathers  and  concentrates  itself,  as  it  were.  .  .  .  With 
us,  that  corner,  that  spot  is  the  boulevard.  I  do  not 
exactly  mean  that  the  boulevard  is  Paris  ;  but  surely, 
without  the  boulevard  we  should  not  understand 
Paris. 

I  shall  always  remember  one  of  the  keenest  emotions 
of  my  youth.  I  had  been  obliged,  owing  to  my  duties 
at  the  time,  to  banish  myself  to  the  provinces,  where 
I  had  remained  almost  two  years,  confined  ^\'ithin  a 
small  town.  The  hour  came  at  last  for  me  to  return 
to  Paris,  and  once  more  to  enter  into  its  possession. 
...  I  do  not  know,  but  it  seemed  to  me  that  the 
very  atmosphere  was  lighter,  more  luminous ;  it 
sparkled  with  youth  and  hfe  ;  I  felt  subtle  fumes  of 
gaiety  mounting  to  my  brain,  and  I  remember  that 
I  could  not  refrain  from  clapping  my  hands,  to  the 
great  scandal  of  my  neighbours,  who  thought  that  I 
was  a  httle  mad.  '  Ah  !  how  beautiful  it  is — the 
boulevard !'  I  exclaimed,  and  I  breathed  deep 
draughts  of  that  air  charged  with  joyous  and  spiritual 
electricity.  ...  I  do  not  believe  that  strangers 
arriving  in  Paris  are  subject  to  such  strong  impres- 
sions. I  have  been  able,  however,  to  question  some 
of  them,  and  they  confessed  to  me  that  the  sight  of 
a  population  who  felt  it  a  happiness  to  Hve  in  their 
gaiety,  and  who  preserved  an  undefinable  aspect  of 
amiable  elegance,  had  strongly  affected  them.  This 
characteristic  aspect  of  the  Parisian  boulevard  had 
charmed  them  from  the  very  first ;  it  was  there  that 
they  had  felt  the  heart  of  the  great  city  beat. 

The  heart  of  the  boulevard  has  changed  its  place 
little  by  little  ;  from  tiie  Gymnase  to  the  Boulevard 
Montmartre,  and  then  to  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens 
and  the  Boulevard  des  Capucines.    There  it  is  to-day. 


74  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

For  the  Parisian,  the  boulevard  in  general  comprises, 
if  you  like,  the  space  from  the  Madeleine  to  the  Bas- 
tille ;  but  that  is  merely,  so  to  speak,  a  geographical 
expression.  The  real  boulevard,  which  is  known  in 
our  slang  as  the  boulevard,  the  boulevard  par  excel- 
lence, is  the  one  that  stretches  from  the  Opera  to  the 
Rue  Montmartre.  .  .  . 

The  boulevard  is  the  domain  of  the  boulevardier, 
it  is  his  salon  ;  he  would  like  to  drive  away  from  it 
the  intruders — ^those  who  do  not  belong  to  his  set. 
When  the  boulevardier  travels  (he  sometimes  travels), 
he  takes  with  him  the  dust  of  the  boulevards  on  the 
soles  of  his  shoes.  He  wanders  about  like  a  lost  soul 
till  he  meets  somebody,  man  or  woman,  who  reminds 
him  of  his  dear  boulevard.  Then  he  dilates  and 
breathes  more  freely. 

At  bottom  this  fluttering  creature  that  bears  the 
name  of  boulevardier — a  species,  I  must  say,  which 
is  becoming  rarer  every  day — is,  notwithstanding  his 
air  of  emancipation  and  scepticism,  the  veriest  slave 
of  routine.  His  Hfe  is  ruled  hke  music-paper.  He 
saunters  twice  a  day  through  his  domain  ;  the  first 
time  before  dinner,  from  four  to  six  o'clock ;  the 
second  time  from  ten  o'clock  to  midnight,  or  one  in 
the  morning,  after  the  play.  For  nothing  in  the 
world  would  he  fail  in  these  habits.  Besides,  he  has 
other  obhgations  ;  it  is  not  permissible  for  him  to 
miss  a  first  night  at  the  Varietes,  the  Vaudeville,  the 
Gymnase,  or  the  Ambigu. 

ANON. 

IN  THE  HEART  OF  PARIS 

I  KNEW  nothing  of  Paris  except  the  lights  which  T  had 
seen  beneath  our  window  the  evening  before,  far,  far 


THE  STREETS  OF  PARIS  75 

downward,  in  the  narrow  Rue  St.  Honorc,  and  the 
rumble  of  the  wheels,  which  continued  later  than  I 
was  awake  to  hear  it,  and  began  again  before  dawn. 
I  could  see,  too,  tall  houses,  that  seemed  to  be 
occupied  in  every  story,  and  that  had  windows  on 
the  steep  roofs.  One  of  these  houses  is  six  stories 
high.  This  Rue  St.  Honors  is  one  of  the  old  streets 
in  Paris,  and  is  that  in  which  Henry  IV.  was  assas- 
sinated ;  but  it  has  not,  in  tliis  part  of  it,  the  aspect 
of  antiquity. 

After  one  o'clock  we  all  went  out  and  walked  along 
the  Rue  de  Rivoli.  .  .  .  We  are  here,  right  in  the 
midst  of  Paris,  and  close  to  whatever  is  best  known 
to  those  who  hear  or  read  about  it — the  Lou\Te  being 
across  the  street,  the  Palais  Royal  but  a  little  way 
off,  the  Tuileries  joining  to  the  Louvre,  the  Place  de 
la  Concorde  just  beyond,  verging  on  which  is  the 
Champs  £]ysees.  .  .  . 

The  splendour  of  Paris,  so  far  as  I  have  seen,  takes 
me  altogether  by  surprise  :  such  stately  edifices,  pro- 
longing themselves  in  unwearjang  magnificence  and 
beauty,  and,  ever  and  anon,  a  long  vista  of  a  street, 
with  a  column  rising  at  the  end  of  it,  or  a  triumphal 
arch,  wrought  in  memory  of  some  grand  event.  The 
light  stone  or  stucco,  wholly  untarnished  by  smoke 
and  soot,  puts  London  to  the  blush,  if  a  blush  could 
be  seen  on  its  dingy  face  ;  but,  indeed,  London  is  not 
to  be  mentioned  with,  nor  compared  even  with  Paris. 
I  never  knew  what  a  palace  was  till  I  had  a  glimpse 
of  the  Louvre  and  the  Tuileries — never  had  my  idea 
of  a  city  been  gratified  till  I  trod  those  stately  streets. 
The  Ufe  of  the  scene,  too,  is  infinitely  more  picturesque 
than  that  of  London,  with  its  monstrous  throng  of 
grim  faces  and  black  coats  :  whereas,  here,  you  see 


76  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

soldiers  and  priests,  policemen  in  cocked  hats,  Zouaves 
with  turbans,  long  mantles,  and  bronzed,  half-Moorish 
faces ;  and  a  great  many  people  whom  you  perceive 
to  be  outside  of  your  experience,  and  know  them 
ugly  to  look  at,  and  fancy  them  villainous.  Truly 
.  .  .  the  French  people  ...  do  grand  and  beautiful 
things  in  the  architectural  way ;  and  I  am  grateful 
for  it.  The  Place  de  la  Concorde  is  a  most  splendid 
square,  large  enough  for  a  nation  to  erect  trophies  in 
of  all  its  triumphs  ;  and  on  one  side  of  it  is  the 
Tuileries,  on  the  opposite  side  the  Champs  Elysees, 
and,  on  the  third,  the  Seine.  .  .  . 

We  have  spent  to-day  chiefly  in  sight-seeing — or 
glimpsing  at— some  of  the  galleries  of  the  Louvre.  I 
must  confess  that  the  vast  and  beautiful  edifice  struck 
me  far  more  than  the  pictures,  sculpture,  and  curio- 
sities which  it  contains.  .  .  .  From  the  pictures  we 
went  into  a  suite  of  rooms  where  are  preserved  many 
relics  of  the  ancient  and  later  kings  of  France.  .  .  . 
There  were  suits  of  armour  and  weapons  that  had 
been  worn  and  handled  by  a  great  many  of  the  French 
kings  ;  and  a  rehgious  book  that  had  belonged  to  St. 
Louis  ;  a  dressing-glass,  most  richly  set  with  precious 
stones,  which  formerly  stood  on  the  toilette-table  of 
Catherine  de  Medici,  and  in  which  I  saw  my  own  face 
where  hers  had  been.  And  there  were  a  thousand 
other  treasures,  just  as  well  worth  mentioning  as 
these.  If  each  monarch  could  have  been  summoned 
from  Hades  to  claim  his  own  relics,  we  should  have 
had  the  halls  full  of  the  old  Childerics,  Charleses, 
Bourbons,  and  Capets,  Henrys  and  Louises,  snatching 
with  ghostly  hands  at  sceptres,  swords,  armour,  and 
mantles  ;  and  Napoleon  would  have  seen,  apparently, 
almost  everything  that  personally  belonged  to  him — 


THE  STREETS  OF  PARIS  ^^ 

his  coat,  his  cocked  hats,  his  camp-desk,  his  field  bed, 
his  knives,  forks,  and  plates,  and  even  a  lock  of  his 
hair. 

NATHANIEL    HAWTHORNE. 


PLACE  DE  LA  BASTILLE,  PARIS 

How  dear  the  sky  has  been  above  this  place  ! 
Small  treasures  of  this  sky  that  we  see  here 
Seen  weak  through  prison-bars  from  year  to  year  ; 

Eyed  with  a  painful  prayer  upon  God's  grace 

To  save,  and  tears  that  stayed  along  the  face 
Lifted  at  sunset.    Yea,  how  passing  dear. 
Those  nights  when  through  the  bars  a  wind  left 
clear 

The  heaven,  and  moonlight  soothed  the  limpid  space  ! 

So  was  it,  till  one  night  the  secret  kept 
Safe  in  low  vault  and  stealthy  corridor 

Was  blown  abroad  on  gospel- tongues  of  flame. 
O  ways  of  God,  mysterious  evermore  ! 
How  many  on  this  spot  have  cursed  and  wept 

That  all  might  stand  here  now  and  own  Thy 
Name. 

DANTE   GABRIEL    ROSSETTI. 

IN  THE  RUE  DE  LA  PAIX 

The  Rue  de  la  Paix.  The  poor  dear  old  street,  to 
me  it  is  still,  in  many  respects,  the  handsomest  street 
in  Paris.  .  .  .  Wandering  there  this  morning,  I  could 
not  help  accepting  its  aspect  as  most  convincing 
evidence  of  the  Easter  holidays  being  at  an  end.  I 
have  always  looked  on  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  as  pre- 
eminently the  most  English  street  in  Paiis ;  and  of 


78  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

that  fact  the  humorous  French  journalist  was  well 
aware  when  he  informed  his  readers  that  there  was 
at  least  one  shop  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  in  the  window 
of  which  appeared  the  inscription  '  Ici  on  parle 
Frangais.'  There  are  great  numbers  of  our  country- 
men and  countr5rvvomen  to  be  found  in  the  Rue  St, 
Honore,  but  not  further  east  than  the  church  of  St. 
Roch,  in  the  Rue  du  Faubourg  St,  Honore.  ,  .  .  I 
maintain  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  to  be  unsurpassed  as  a 
resort  for  my  compatriots  in  Paris.  ...  In  other 
localities  they  are  absorbed  in  the  great  throng  of 
■flaneurs  to  the  manner  born,  and  have  to  take  their 
chance  with  the  native  loungers  ;  but  in  the  Rue  de 
la  Paix  they  well-nigh  monopolize  the  trottoir,  and 
fill  the  first  row,  so  to  speak,  in  the  stalls  among  the 
starers  in  at  all  the  shop-windows. 

At  night  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  is  not  by  any  means  a 
crowded  thoroughfare.  Although  it  has  numerous  and 
comfortable  hotels,  it  does  not  boast  a  single  restau- 
rant or  cafe.  By  nine  o'clock  business  is  suspended 
at  the  great  milUnery  and  dressmaking  estabhshments 
which  are  carried  on  above  the  shops,  Mesdames 
'  Theodoric,'  '  Clorinde,'  '  Hermione,'  '  Naomi,'  and 
so  forth,  whose  lofty  ensigns,  denoting  their  com- 
merce in  '  robes,'  '  fleurs,'  '  dentelles,'  and  '  trousseaux 
de  mariage,'  gleam  in  huge  gilded  letters  from  so 
many  balconies,  attract  during  the  daytime  a  brilliant 
affluence  of  what  simple-minded  folk  in  England  term 
'  carriage-people.'  ,  .  . 

It  is  from  ten  to  twelve  in  the  morning — that  is  to 
say,  between  the  hours  of  Mass  and  breakfast — and 
between  three  and  five  in  the  afternoon,  between 
breakfast  and  the  drive  in  the  Bois,  that  the  crowd 
of  '  carriage-people '  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  is  at  its 


'IJI 


k 


fr') 


KIK    1)K    I, A    PAIX 


THE  STREETS  OF  PARIS  79 

greatest.  Then  you  may  see  the  Duchesses  and  the 
Marchionesses,  the  Ambassadresses  and  the  American 
'  millionnairesses '  descending  from  their  sparkling 
equipages  at  the  portals  of  the  mansions  where  '  Theo- 
doric,'  '  Clorinde,'  and  the  rest  ply  their  mysteries  ; 
and  there  you  may  institute,  if  you  please,  any 
number  of  comparisons  between  the  British  flunkey 
— calm,  superb,  impassible  of  mien,  stately  of  figure, 
symmetrical  of  calf,  undeniably  stately,  but  shghtly 
supercilious — and  the  French  valet  de  -pied  ;  a  stalwart 
fellow  enough  of  his  inches,  but  clean-shaven,  shallow, 
somewhat  cadaverous  of  countenance,  apt  to  look  too 
rigid,  as  though  he  were  half-strangled  in  his  high, 
stiff,  white  collar,  and  altogether  wearing  a  half- 
military,  half-clerical  expression. 

But,  after  five  o'clock,  the  gay  equipages,  with 
their  inmates  and  valeis  de  pied,  disappear.  The 
demoiselles  de  magasin,  I  take  it,  are  dismissed  about 
nine,  and  hurry  away  to  their  beloved  boulevards  ; 
and,  altogether,  the  Rue  de  la  PaLx  would  be  all  but 
deserted  but  for  the  Enghsh,  whose  appearance  after 
the  dinner-hour — say  from  eight  to  close  upon  ten  p.m. 
— can  in  general  be  confidently  reckoned  upon. 

GEORGE    AUGUSTUS   SAI.A. 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  PARIS 

There  is  no  season  of  the  year  when  Paris  is  not  gay 
and  attractive  out  of  doors  ;  but  in  summer  it  is 
simply  enchanting.  No  one  Uvcs  in  his  interior,  as  the 
French  call  their  homes,  from  May  to  October. 

It  is  as  much  as  the  Frenchman  can  do  to  bring  him- 
self to  pass  a  few  hours  of  the  burning  noontide  in  his 
house,  and  to  sleep  away  a  little  of  the  short  suimner 


8o  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

night  there  ;  for  the  rest  of  the  time  he  is,  if  he  is  a 
man  of  leisure,  out  of  doors. 

He  goes  to  the  salon  ;  he  saunters  along  the  shady 
sides  of  streets  ;  he  takes  his  midday  breakfast  at  one 
open-air  restaurant,  and  his  late  dinner  at  another  ; 
and  at  the  fashionable  hours,  between  four  and  seven, 
he  drives  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne. 

Between  times  he  sips  his  coffee  on  the  boulevards, 
and  the  evening  finds  him  in  some  out-of-doors  con- 
cert. He  is  as  gay,  and  it  seems  to  me  as  thoughtless, 
as  the  golden  butterflies  that  flit  by  him  in  the  sun.  .  . . 

Above  all  things  else,  Paris  is  clean.  We  have 
always  heard  of  it  as  the  gayest,  brightest,  wickedest 
of  cities  ;  but  people  have  usually  forgotten  to  tell  us 
how  clean  it  is.  They  have  disregarded  this  wonderful 
cleanhness,  as  if  it  were  the  commonest  instead  of  the 
most  uncommon  thing  in  the  world.  .  .  . 

It  is  an  unending  pleasure  to  walk  these  spacious 
streets.  The  art  and  beauty  and  glory  of  the  world 
are  all  before  your  eyes.  You  see  in  one  window  won- 
derful pictures, — the  works  of  modern  French  artists, 
a  school  in  some  respects  outranking  all  others  of  our 
time.  In  another  window  are  striking  groups  in  terra- 
cotta; in  others  such  furniture  as  suggests  the  Oriental 
splendour  of  the  Arabian  Nights. 

LOUISE    CHANDLER   MOULTON. 


A  RONDEAU  OF  THE  BOULEVARDS 

O  LONG  fair  ways,  in  grey  and  shine, 
Paris,  what  joy  these  streets  of  thine  ; 
And,  walking  here,  no  one  may  feel 
Time  from  his  grasp  the  glad  hours  steal : 
Nor  for  the  coming  hours  repine. 


THE  STREETS  OF  PARIS  8i 

Here  'neath  the  trees  where  lovers  dine 
Starlight  and  music  intertwine, 
Till  from  old  towers  a  late  hour  peals. 
O  fair  long  ways  ! 

Student,  grisette,  here  all  combine, 

Paris,  to  sing  a  song  divine 
To  thee, — thy  love  thou  dost  reveal 
To  them,  on  them  dost  set  thy  seal. 

Paris,  how  many  lovers  thine  ! 

0  fair  long  ways  ! 

JULES    XODIER. 

THE  STREETS  OF  PARIS  :  THEIR  INFINITE  PAST 
All  the  streets  are  noisy  with  an  infinite  past ;  the 
unexpected  turnings  of  old  streets,  the  reveries  that 
hang  round  the  last  of  the  colleges  and  that  haunt  the 
wonderful  Hill  are  but  a  little  obvious  increment  to 
that  inspiring  crowd  of  the  dead  ;  the  men  of  our  blood 
and  our  experience,  who  built  us  up,  and  of  whom  we 
are  but  the  last  and  momentary  heirs,  handing  on  to 
others  a  tradition  to  which  we  have  added  very  little 
indeed.  Paris  rises  around  any  man  who  knows  her  ; 
her  streets  are  changing  things,  her  stones  are  hke  the 
clothes  of  a  man  ;  more  real  than  any  present  aspect 
she  may  carry,  the  illimitable  company  of  history 
peoples  her,  and  it  is  in  their  ready  speech  and  com- 
munion that  the  city  takes  on  its  dignity.  This  is  the 
reading  of  that  perplexity  which  all  have  felt,  of  that 
unquiet  suggestion  which  hangs  about  the  autumn 
trees  and  follows  the  fresh  winds  along  the  Seine  ;  the 
riddle  of  lier  winter  evenings  and  of  the  faces  that 
come  on  one  out  of  the  dark  in  the  lanes  of  the  Latin 
quarter.  She  is  ourselves  ;  and  we  are  only  the  film  and 

6 


82  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

edge  of  an  unnumbered  past.  There  is  nothing  modern 
in  those  fresh  streets.  The  common  square  of  the  Inno- 
cents is  a  dust  of  graves  and  a  meeting-place  for  the 
dead  ;  the  Danse  Macabre  was  too  much  of  a  creation 
to  pass  at  the  mere  falling  of  the  wall.  The  most 
recent  of  the  ornaments  make  a  kind  of  tabernacle  for 
the  memories  of  the  town — Etienne  Marcel  before  his 
Hotel  de  Ville,  Charlemagne  before  the  Cathedral. 
The  Place  de  la  Concorde  is  not  a  crossing  of  roads  for 
the  rich,  it  is  the  death-scene  of  the  Girondins  ;  the 
vague  space  about  the  Madeleine  is  not  only  a  fore- 
ground for  the  church,  it  is  also  the  tomb  of  the  Cape- 
tians.  Wherever  the  town  has  kept  a  part  of  her  older 
garment — in  the  Cathedral,  in  the  Palais,  in  Ste. 
Chapelle — you  may  mix  with  all  the  centuries. 

HILAIRE    BELLOC. 


FAUBOURG  ST.  GERMAIN 

I  LOVE  that  quartier  !  if  ever  I  go  to  Paris  again  I  shall 
reside  there.  It  is  a  different  world  from  the  streets 
usually  known  to,  and  tenanted  by,  the  English — 
there,  indeed,  you  are  among  the  French,  the  fossilized 
remains  of  the  old  regime — the  very  houses  have  an  air 
of  desolate,  yet  venerable  grandeur — you  never  pass 
by  the  white  and  modern  mansion  of  a  nouveau  riche  ; 
all,  even  to  the  ruggedness  of  the  pave,  breathes  a 
haughty  disdain  of  innovation — you  cross  one  of  the 
numerous  bridges,  and  you  enter  into  another  time — 
you  are  inhaling  the  atmosphere  of  a  past  century  ;* 
no  flaunting  boutique,  French  in  its  trumpery,  English 
in  its  prices,  stares  you  in  the  face  ;  no  stiff  coats  and 
unnatural  gaits  are  seen  anglicizing  up  the  melancholy 
*  Written  1827. 


THE  STREETS  OF  PARIS  83 

streets.  Vast  hotels,  with  their  gloomy  frontals  and 
magnificent  contempt  of  comfort ;  shops,  such  as 
shops  might  have  been  in  the  aristocratic  days  of 
Louis  Quatorze,  ere  British  contamination  made  them 
insolent  and  dear  ;  public  edifices,  still  eloquent  of  the 
superb  charities  of  le  grand  monarque — carriages  with 
their  huge  bodies  and  ample  decorations  ;  horses,  with 
their  Norman  dimensions  and  undocked  honours  ; 
men,  on  whose  more  high  though  not  less  courteous 
demeanour  the  Revolution  seems  to  have  wrought  no 
democratic  plebeianism — ail  strike  on  the  mind  with 
a  vague  and  nameless  impression  of  antiquity ;  a 
something  solemn  even  in  gaiety,  and  faded  in  pomp, 
appears  to  linger  over  all  you  behold  ;  there  are  the 
Great  French  People  unadulterated  by  change,  un- 
sulUed  with  the  commerce  of  the  vagrant  and  varied 
tribes  that  throng  their  mighty  mart  of  enjoyments. 
The  strangers  who  fill  the  qiiartiers  on  this  side  the 
Seine  pass  not  there  ;  between  them  and  the  Faubourg 
there  is  a  gulf ;  the  very  skies  seem  different — your 
own  feelings,  thoughts — nature  itself — alter,  when 
you  have  passed  that  Styx  which  divides  the  wan- 
derers from  the  habitants  ;  your  spirits  are  not  so 
much  damped  as  tinged,  refined,  ennobled  by  a  certain 
inexpressible  awe — you  are  girt  with  the  stateliness  of 
old,  and  you  tread  the  gloomy  streets  with  the  dignity 
of  a  man  who  is  recalling  the  splendours  of  an  ancient 
court  where  he  once  did  homage. 

EDWARD    BULWER,    LORD    LYTTON. 

.\   WINE   SHOP   IN   THE   SUBURB   OF   ST.   ANTOINE 

A  LARGE  cask  of  wine  had  been  dropped  and  broken 
in  the  street.  The  accident  had  happened  in  getting  it 

6—2 


84  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

out  of  a  cart ;  the  cask  had  tumbled  out  with  a  run,  the 
hoops  had  burst,  and  it  lay  on  the  stones  just  outside 
the  door  of  the  wine-shop,  shattered  like  a  walnut-shell. 

All  the  people  within  reach  had  suspended  their 
business,  or  their  idleness,  to  run  to  the  spot  and  drink 
the  wine.  The  rough,  irregular  stones  of  the  street, 
pointing  every  way,  and  designed,  one  might  have 
thought,  expressly  to  lame  all  living  creatures  that  ap- 
proached them,  had  dammed  it  into  little  pools  ;  these 
were  surrounded,  each  by  its  own  jostling  group  or 
crowd,  according  to  its  size.  Some  men  kneeled  down, 
made  scoops  of  their  two  hands  joined,  and  sipped,  or 
tried  to  help  women,  who  bent  over  their  shoulders,  to 
sip,  before  the  wine  had  all  run  out  between  their 
fingers.  Others,  men  and  women,  dipped  in  the  puddles 
with  little  mugs  of  mutilated  earthenware,  or  even 
with  handkerchiefs  from  women's  heads,  which  were 
squeezed  dry  into  infants'  mouths  ;  others  made  small 
mud-embankments,  to  stem  the  wine  as  it  ran  ;  others, 
directed  by  lookers-on  up  at  high  windows,  darted 
here  and  there,  to  cut  off  little  streams  of  wine  that 
started  away  in  new  directions  ;  others  devoted  them- 
selves to  the  sodden  and  lee-dyed  pieces  of  the  cask, 
licking  and  even  champing  the  moister  wine-rotted 
fragments  with  eager  relish.  There  was  no  drainage  to 
carry  off  the  wine,  and  not  only  did  it  all  get  taken  up, 
but  so  much  mud  got  taken  up  along  with  it  that 
there  might  have  been  a  scavenger  in  the  street,  if  any- 
body acquainted  with  it  could  have  believed  in  such 
a  miraculous  presence. 

A  shrill  sound  of  laughter  and  of  amused  voices — 
voices  of  men,  women,  and  children — resounded  in  the 
street  while  this  wine  game  lasted.  There  was  little 
roughness  in  the  sport,  and  much  playfulness.    There 


THE  STREETS  OF  PARIS  85 

was  a  special  companionship  in  it,  an  observable  in- 
clination on  the  part  of  every  one  to  join  some  other 
one,  which  led,  especially  among  the  luckier  or  lighter- 
hearted,  to  frolicsome  embraces,  drinking  of  healths, 
shaking  of  hands,  and  even  joining  of  hands  and 
dancing,  a  dozen  together.  .  .  .  The  wine  was  red  wine 
and  had  stained  the  ground  of  the  narrow  street  in  the 
suburb  of  St.  Antoine,  in  Paris,  where  it  was  spilled. 
It  had  stained  many  hands,  too,  and  many  faces,  and 
many  naked  feet,  and  many  wooden  shoes.  .  .  . 

The  wine-shop  was  a  corner  shop,  better  than  most 
others  in  its  appearance  and  degree,  and  the  master  of 
the  wine-shop  had  stood  outside  it,  in  a  yellow  waist- 
coat and  green  breeches,  looking  on  at  the  struggle  for 
the  lost  wine.  '  It's  not  my  affair,'  said  he,  with  a 
final  shrug  of  the  shoulders.  '  The  people  from  the 
market  did  it.     Let  them  bring  another.'  .  .  . 

This  wine-shop  keeper  was  a  bull-necked,  martial- 
looking  man  of  thirty,  and  he  should  have  been  of  a 
hot  temperament,  for,  although  it  was  a  bitter  day,  he 
wore  no  coat,  but  carried  one  slung  over  his  shoulder. 
His  shirt-sleeves  were  rolled  up,  too,  and  his  brown 
arms  were  bare  to  the  elbows.  Neither  did  he  wear 
anything  more  on  his  head  than  his  own  crisply  curling 
short  dark  hair.  He  was  a  dark  man  altogether  with 
good  eyes  and  a  good  bold  breadth  between  them. 
Good-humoured-looking  on  the  whole,  but  implacable' 
looking,  too  ;  evidently  a  man  of  a  strong  resolution 
and  a  set  purpose  ;  a  man  not  desirable  to  be  met, 
rushing  down  a  narrow  pass  with  a  gulf  on  either  side, 
for  nothing  would  turn  the  man. 

Madame  Defarge,  his  wife,  sat  in  the  shop  behind 
the  counter  as  he  came  in.  Madame  Defarge  was  a 
stout  woman  of  about  his  own  age,  with  a  watchful  eye 


86  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

that  seldom  seemed  to  look  at  anything,  a  large  hand 
heavily  ringed,  a  steady  face,  strong  features,  and 
great  composure  of  manner.  There  was  a  character 
about  Madame  Defarge,  from  which  one  might  have 
predicated  that  she  did  not  often  make  mistakes 
against  herself  in  any  of  the  reckonings  over  Vv^hich  she 
presided.  Madame  Defarge,  being  sensitive  to  cold, 
was  wTapped  in  fur,  and  had  a  quantity  of  bright  shawl 
twined  about  her  head,  though  not  to  the  concealment 
of  her  large  ear-rings.  Her  knitting  was  before  her,  but 
she  had  laid  it  down  to  pick  her  teeth  with  a  toothpick. 
Thus  engaged,  with  her  right  elbow  supported  by  her 
left  hand,  Madame  Defarge  said  nothing  when  her  lord 
came  in,  but  coughed  just  one  grain  of  cough.  This,  in 
combination  with  the  Hfting  of  her  darkly  defined  eye- 
brows over  her  toothpick  by  the  breadth  of  a  line, 
suggested  to  her  husband  that  he  would  do  well  to  look 
round  the  shop  among  the  customers,  for  any  new 
customer  who  had  dropped  in  winle  he  stepped  over 
the  way.  Charles  dickens. 


IN  THE  RUE  DES  BILLETTES 

Of  the  mighty  stream  of  Parisian  holiday-makers  one 
Sunday  evening,  only  a  tiny  rill  flowed  in  the  direction 
of  the  Rue  des  Billettes.  Few  tourists  ever  find  their 
way  to  the  Lutheran  church  in  this  ancient  street ;  few 
indeed  were  likely  to  be  tempted  thither  on  such  a 
night.  The  allurements  held  out  to  pleasure-seekers 
were  almost  maddening.  It  was  the  close  of  a  dazzling 
show,  that  unimaginable,  indescribable  jubilee  of 
liberty,  all  the  nations  had  flocked  to  see. 

The  Eiffel  Tower,  in  itself  a  revolution,  fittest  em- 
blem of  revolution  gone  by,  with  its  trembhng  lights, 


THE  STREETS  OF  PARIS  87 

near  neighbours  of  the  stars,  its  fairy  gardens  and  rain- 
bow-coloured fountains,  its  aerial  voyages  and  ban- 
quets midway  between  earth  and  heaven,  formed  one 
of  a  thousand  magnets  attracting  the  stranger. 

Who  could  turn  aside  in  quest  of  the  quiet,  incon- 
spicuous Rue  des  Billettes,  when  Mohere  could  be 
heard  at  the  Frangais,  Racine  at  the  Odeon  ?  To 
understand,  or  rather  feel,  the  French  language,  we 
must  hear  the  masterpieces  of  these  great  brethren 
again  and  again.  At  a  first  hearing  we  are  carried 
away  by  the  passion  of  a  piece,  at  a  second,  taken  cap- 
tive by  the  noble  sentiment  pervading  every  hne ;  at  a 
third,  our  ear  becomes  aUve  to  the  melody  of  the  verse. 

What  is  there  in  Paris,  what  indeed  is  there  not, 
during  these  intoxicating  Eiffel  days  ?  The  quint- 
essence of  intellectual  enjoyment  for  the  sober,  the 
acme  of  pantomime  for  grown-up  children,  for  Epicu- 
reans the  Eden  Theatre,  five  hundred  beautiful  dancers 
with  one  smile,  one  pose,  one  airy  come-and-go  ! 

Would  we  amuse  ourselves  by  finding  out  what 
amuses  the  workaday  world,  let  us  turn  into  the 
Montagues  Russes  or  Musee  Grevin,  to  be  sledged 
along  artificial  avalanches,  or,  Hke  the  prince  of  Ara- 
bian story,  wander  amid  a  petrified  population. 

So  perfect  the  illusion  that  we  end  by  asking  our- 
selves who  is  hving  flesh  and  blood,  who  mere  make- 
beUeve  in  this  assemblage. 

But  the  show  of  shows  is  Paris  itself,  no  longer  the 
metropolis  of  a  nation,  the  capital  of  France,  but  of 
the  universe.  On  every  side  is  heard  a  jargon  of  out- 
landish speech  ;  the  sight  of  a  French  face  in  these 
motley  crowds  almost  comes  as  a  surprise  to  us.  The 
curious  and  the  ethnologist  need  no  longer  traverse  or 
circumnavigate  the  globe  in  order  to  see  what  the  re- 


88  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

motest  races  of  man  are  like.  All  are  here,  to  be  ad- 
mired, wondered  at,  studied  at  leisure,  their  appear- 
ance new  and  strange  to  ourselves  at  this  brilliant 
Paris  in  their  own  eyes.  In  this  coming  together  of 
savage  and  polished  humanity  Ues  the  real  marvel  of 
the  centennial  exhibition.  And  it  is  emblematic.  Just 
as  the  Eiffel  Tower  looks  down  upon  the  entire  popu- 
lation of  the  globe,  each  type  being  here  represented, 
so  did  the  Revolution  it  commemorates  embrace  in  its 
grandest  programme  black  race  and  white,  civiUzed 
and  wild,  freeman  and  slave  ! 

M.    BETHAM-EDWARDS. 

THE  LIMBOS  OF  PARIS 

To  roam  thoughtfully  about,  that  is  to  say,  to  lounge, 
is  a  fine  employment  of  time  in  the  eyes  of  the  philo- 
sopher ;  particularly  in  that  rather  illegitimate  species 
of  campaign  which  is  tolerably  ugly  but  odd,  and 
composed  of  two  natures,  which  surrounds  certain 
great  cities,  notably  Paris.  To  study  the  suburbs  is  to 
study  the  amphibious  animal.  End  of  the  trees,  begin- 
ning of  the  roofs ;  end  of  the  grass,  beginning  of  the 
pavements  ;  end  of  the  furrows,  beginning  of  the 
shops  ;  end  of  the  wheel-ruts,  beginning  of  the  pas- 
sions ;  end  of  the  divine  murmur,  beginning  of  the 
human  uproar  ;  hence  our  extraordinary  interest. 

Hence,  in  these  not  very  attractive  places,  indelibly 
stamped  by  the  passing  stroller  with  the  epithet 
melancholy,  the  apparently  objectless  promenades  of 
the  dreamer. 

He  who  writes  these  hues  has  long  been  a  prowler 
about  the  barriers  of  Paris,  and  it  is  for  him  a  source  of 
profound  souvenirs.     That  close-shaven  turf,  those 


THE  STREETS  OF  PARIS  89 

pebbly  paths,  that  chalk,  those  pools,  those  harsh 
monotonies  of  waste  and  fallow  lands,  the  plants  of 
early  market-garden  suddenly  springing  into  sight 
in  a  bottom,  that  mixture  of  the  savage  and  the 
citizen,  those  vast  desert  nooks  where  the  garrison 
drums  practise  noisily,  and  produce  a  sort  of  Usping  of 
battle,  those  hermits  by  day  and  cut-throats  by  night ; 
that  clumsy  mill  which  turns  in  the  wind,  the  hoisting- 
wheels  of  the  quarries,  the  tea-gardens  at  the  corners 
of  the  cemeteries  ;  the  m3'sterious  charm  of  great, 
sombre  walls  squarely  intersecting  immense,  vague 
stretches  of  land  inundated  with  sunshine  and  full  of 
butterflies, — all  this  attracted  him. 

There  is  hardly  anyone  on  earth  who  is  not  ac- 
quainted with  those  singular  spots,  the  Glaciere,  the 
Cunette,  the  liideous  wall  of  Crenelle  all  speckled  with 
balls,  Montparnasse,  the  Fosse-aux-Loups,  Aubiers  on 
the  banks  of  the  Marne,  Mont-Souris,  the  Tombe 
Issoire,  the  Pierre-Plate  de  Chatillon,  where  there  is 
an  old,  exhausted  quarry  which  no  longer  serves  any 
purpose  except  to  raise  mushrooms,  and  which  is 
closed,  on  a  level  with  the  ground,  by  a  trap-door  of 
planks.  The  campagna  of  Rome  is  one  idea,  the  ban- 
lieue  of  Paris  is  another  ;  to  behold  nothing  but  fields, 
houses,  or  trees  in  what  a  stretch  of  country  offers  us, 
is  to  remain  on  the  surface  ;  all  aspects  of  things  are 
thoughts  of  God.  The  spot  where  a  plain  effects  its 
junction  with  a  city  is  always  stamped  with  a  certain 
piercing  melancholy.  Nature  and  humanity  both 
appeal  to  you  at  the  same  time  there.  Local  originali- 
ties there  make  their  appearance. 

Anyone  who,  like  ourselves,  has  wandered  about  in 
these  solitudes  contiguous  to  our  faubourgs,  which 
may  be  designated  as  the  limbos  of  Paris,  has  seen 


90  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

here  and  there,  in  the  most  desert,  at  the  most  unex- 
pected moment,  behind  a  meagre  hedge,  or  in  the 
corner  of  a  lugubrious  wall,  children  grouped  tumultu- 
ously  .  .  .  ragged,  dishevelled,  playing  hide-and-seek, 
and  crowned  with  corn-flowers.  All  of  them  are  httle 
ones  who  have  made  their  escape  from  poor  families. 
The  outer  boulevard  is  their  breathing  space  ;  the 
suburbs  belong  to  them.  There  they  are  eternally  play- 
ing truant.  .  .  .  There  they  are,  or  rather,  there  they 
exist,  far  from  every  eye,  in  the  sweet  hght  of  May  or 
June,  kneeHng  round  a  hole  in  the  ground,  snapping 
marbles  with  their  thumbs,  quarrelling  over  half- 
farthings,  irresponsible,  volatile,  free,  and  happy  ;  and 
no  sooner  do  they  catch  sight  of  you  than  they  recol- 
lect that  they  have  an  industry,  and  that  they  must 
earn  their  living,  and  they  offer  to  sell  you  an  old 
woollen  stocking  filled  with  cockchafers,  or  a  bunch  of 
niac.  These  encounters  with  strange  children  are  one 
of  the  charming  and  at  the  same  time  poignant  graces 
of  the  environs  of  Paris. 

Sometimes  there  are  Httle  girls  among  the  throng  of 
boys, — are  they  their  sisters  ? — who  are  almost  young 
maidens,  thin,  feverish,  with  sunburnt  hands,  covered 
with  freckles,  crowned  \vith  poppies  and  ears  of  rye, 
gay,  haggard,  barefooted.  They  can  be  seen  devouring 
cherries  among  the  wheat.  In  the  evening  they  can  be 
heard  laughing.  These  groups,  warmly  illuminated  by 
the  full  glow  of  midday,  or  indistinctly  seen  in  the  twi- 
hght,  occupy  the  thoughtful  man  for  a  very  long  time, 
and  these  visions  mingle  with  his  dreams. 

Paris,  centre,  banlieue,  circumference  ;  this  consti- 
tutes all  the  earth  to  those  children.  They  never  ven- 
ture beyond  this.  They  can  no  more  escape  from  the 
Paiisian  atmosphere  than  fish  can  escape  from  the 


THE  STREETS  OF  PARIS  91 

water.  For  them,  nothing  exists  two  leagues  beyond 
the  barriers  :  Ivry,  Gentilly,  Arcueil,  Belleville,  Auber- 
villiers,  Menilmontant,  Choisy-le-Roi,  Billancourt, 
Meudon,  Issy,  Vanvre,  Sevres,  Puteaux,  Neuilly,  Gen- 
nevilliers,  Colombes,  Romainville,  Chatou,  Asnieres, 
Bougival,  Nanterre,  Enghien,  Noisy-le-Sec,  Nogent, 
Drancy,  Gonesse ;  the  universe  ends  there. 

VICTOR   HUGO, 

THE  ONLY  REAL  PARIS 

As  to  Paris,  why,  everything,  or  almost  everything, 
which  has  been  made  by  man  and  time,  and  not  by 
machinery,  possesses  a  grace,  an  amusing  turn,  a 
something  tclUng  of  centuries  and  the  weather,  and 
telling  above  all  of  its  own  particular  private  ways  and 
means,  from  the  filing  buttresses  of  Notre  Dame  to 
the  long  carts,  with  cranks  and  levers,  on  which  the 
great  blue-fleeced  horses  draw  the  barrels  along  from 
the  Halle  aux  Vins. 

That  brings  me  back  to  my  expedition  of,  so  to 
speak,  purification  after  too  much  Exliibition.  I  had 
an  even  better  one,  a  pilgrimage  to  the  spirit  indwell- 
ing in  the  Left  Bank,  quite  accidentally  a  few  days 
later.  We  went  first  to  an  old  house,  Louis  XIV.,  with 
great  yard  for  coaches  and  garlanded  portal,  in  the 
Rue  Garanciere,  and  then  on.  But  I  ought  to  explain 
that  one  of  the  charms  of  the  Left  Bank,  one  of  the 
things  which  make  it  so  particularly  Paiis,  is  its  being 
a  great  alluvium  and  accretion  of  the  in-streaming 
provinces,  containing  samples  of  every  provincial 
town,  of  every  sort  of  provincial  life,  even  of  the  seclu- 
sion and  silence  thereof  alongside  of  its  own  noisy 
tlioroughfaies.    The  particulai"  house  we  wont  to  see 


02  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

,  .  .  was  a  little  old  hotel  in  the  Rue  Vanneau,  unin- 
habited for  months,  and  seemingly  years,  full  of  dust 
and  cobvv«;bs,  and  yet  quite  dainty  and  decorously 
cheerful ;  behind  it  the  big  trees  and  half-wild  bushes 
of  a  neglected  garden.  An  old  lady  and  gentleman 
(who  ?  whence  ?)  were  taking  the  air  on  the  steps  of 
this  utterly  dismantled  abode.  The  last  inhabitants  had 
been  some  Pf':res  B<';n(jdictins  ;  and  on  the  mantel-piece 
of  the  empty  lodge  lay  an  old  newspaj:x;r  address  of  Sa 
Grandeur,  the  Bishop  of  Hebron,  or  Antioch,  or  Tyre, 
O  Paris  of  the  Left  Bank,  the  only  real  Paris  for  me, 
with  thy  stately  hotels  and  long  convent  walls  over- 
topped with  discreet  green  ;  thy  frowzy  little  Balzac 
pensions,  tenanted  once  by  the  nymphs  of  Farmers- 
General,  and  now  by  enthusiastic  art  students  and 
warlike  doctoresses,  and  widows  from  the  provinces 
leading  bowing  sons  in  check  cravats  ;  Paris  of  Faisan 
d'Ors  where  we  hoped  in  the  plat  du  jour  and  hesitated 
between  gratuitous  blue  wine  and  another,  not  gratui- 
tous, demie-canneUe  ;  Paris  of  cremeries,  wherein  we 
cheated  the  desire  for  afternoon  tea,  and  many, 
doubtless,  thought  to  cheat  desire  for  dinner  or  lunch; 
Paris  of  hxistory,  of  romance,  Dumas  and  Balzac,  of 
hope  and  effort  and  day-dreams  also,  Socialists,  and 
scientific  struggling  girls  of  Rosny's  novels,  and  ardent 
expatriated  creatures  fit  for  Henry  James  !  I  felt  it 
was  the  only  real  Paris,  as  1  stood  (having  left  behind 
the  civilized  cosmofjolitan  boulevards),  at  the  window 
of  a  certain  fourth  floor  near  the  Invalides,  overlooking 
chpfjed  trees  and  Louis  XIV.  attics,  with,  in  the  smoky 
sunset  distance,  a  faint  babel  of  Exhibition  towers 
and  domes.  And  to  think  that  I,  even  7,  could  have 
thought,  even  for  a  second,  that  I  had  come  to  Paris  to 
see  the  Rue  dcs  Nations '  vernon  lee. 


SOUK   PARISIAN    PH ASICS 


stately  Paris  ...  is  in  trnth  an  ocean  that  no  line  can  plumb. 
You  may  survey  its  surface  and  describe  it ;  but  no  matter 
what  pains  you  take  with  your  investigations  and  recog- 
nisances, no  matter  how  numerous  and  painstaking  the  toilers 
in  this  sea,  there  will  be  always  lonely  and  unexplored  regions 
in  its  depths,  caverns  unknown,  flowers  and  pearls  and 
monsters  of  the  deep  overlooked  or  forgotten  by  the  divers  of 
literature. 

HONORE    DE    BALZAC. 

At  midnight  I  was  on  the  platform  of  one  of  the  towers  of 
Notre  Dame  ...  in  the  society  of  four  friends  and  a  mag- 
nificent moon,  with  the  accompaniment  of  a  great  owl  flapping 
his  wings.  Paris  at  this  hour,  and  by  moonlight,  is  a  superb 
spectacle,  resembling  a  city  of  the  Thousand  and  One  Nights, 
the  inhabitants  of  which  have  been  enchanted  during  their 
sleep. 

PROSPER    M^RIwiE. 

The  theatres  of  the  boulevards  .  .  .  are  the  true  resorts  of 
the  people.  They  begin  at  the  Porte  Saint-Martin  and  run 
in  a  line  along  the  Boulevard  du  Temple,  ever  diminishing  in 
importance  and  value.  Indeed,  this  local  rank  and  range  is 
very  correct.  First  of  all  we  have  the  theatre  which  bears 
the  name  of  the  Porte  Saint-Martin,  and  which  is  the  best 
theatre  for  the  drama  in  Paris.  There  the  works  of  Victor 
Hugo  and  of  Dumas  are  most  admirably  given.  .  .  .  Then 
comes  the  Ambigu-Comique,  which  is  inferior  as  regards  plays 
and  actors,  yet  where  the  romantic  drama  is  still  given.  .  .  . 
Then  we  have  La  Gaiete.  .  .  .  The  romantic  drama  has  here 
also  rights  of  citizenship,  and  here,  too,  even  in  this  pleasant 
place,  tears  flow  and  hearts  beat  with  the  most  terrible  emo- 
tions ;  but  there  is  on  the  whole  more  singing  and  laughter, 
and  here  the  vaudeville  often  comes  lightly  trilling  forth. 

HEINRICH    HEINE. 


ARRIVING  AT  PARIS 

Nous  voila  ! — We  are  at  Paris  !  .  .  .  The  postilion 
cracks  his  terrible  whip,  and  screams  shrilly.  The 
conductor  blows  incessantly  on  his  horn  ;  the  bells  of 
the  harness,  the  bumping  and  ringing  of  the  wheels 
and  chains,  and  the  clatter  of  the  great  hoofs  of  the 
heavy,  snorting  Norman  stallions,  have  wondrously 
increased  within  this,  the  last  ten  minutes  ;  and  the 
dihgence,  which  has  been  proceeding  hitherto  at  the 
rate  of  a  league  in  an  hour,  now  dashes  gallantly 
forward,  as  if  it  would  traverse  at  least  six  miles  in 
the  same  space  of  time.  .  .  .  WTiat  a  capital  coach  ! 
We  will  ride  henceforth  in  it,  and  in  no  other  ! 

But,  behold  us  at  Paris  !  The  dihgence  has  reached 
a  rude-looking  gate,  or  grille,  flanked  by  two  lodges  ; 
the  French  kings  of  old  made  their  entry  by  this  gate  ; 
some  of  the  hottest  battles  of  the  late  Revolution 
were  fought  here.  At  present,  it  is  blocked  by  carts 
and  peasants,  and  a  busy  crowd  of  men,  in  green, 
examining  the  packages  before  they  enter,  probing 
the  straw  with  long  needles.  It  is  the  Barrier  of  St. 
Denis,  and  the  green  men  are  the  customs  men  of  the 
city  of  Paris.  .  .  . 

The  street  which  we  enter,  that  of  the  Faubourg 
St.  Denis,  presents  a  strange  contrast  to  the  dark 
uniformity  of  a  London  street,  where  everything,  in 
the  dingy  and  smoky  atmosphere,  looks  as  though  it 
were  painted  in  India-ink — black  houses,  black  pas- 
sengers, and  black  sky.  Here,  on  the  contrary,  is  a 
thousand  times  more  hfe  and  colour.     Before  you, 

95 


(,6  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

shining  in  the  sun,  is  a  long  glistening  line  of  gutter, — 
not  a  very  pleasing  object  in  a  city,  but  in  a  picture 
invaluable.  On  each  side  are  houses  of  all  dimensions 
and  hues  ;  some  but  of  one  story ;  some  as  high  as 
the  Tower  of  Babel.  From  these  the  haberdashers 
(and  this  is  their  favourite  street)  flaunt  long  strips 
of  gaudy  calicoes,  which  give  a  strange  air  of  rude 
gaiety  to  the  street.  ]\Iilk-women,  with  a  httle  crowd 
of  gossips  round  each,  are,  at  this  early  hour  of  morn- 
ing, seUing  the  chief  material  of  the  Parisian  cafe-au- 
lait.  Gay  wine-shops,  painted  red,  and  smartly 
decorated  with  vines  and  gilded  railings,  are  filled 
with  workmen  taking  their  morning's  draught.  That 
gloomy-looking  prison  on  your  right  is  a  prison  for 
women  ;  once  it  was  a  convent  for  Lazarists  :  a  thou- 
sand unfortunate  individuals  of  the  softer  sex  now 
occupy  that  mansion  :  they  bake,  as  we  find  in  the 
guide-books,  the  bread  of  all  the  other  prisons ;  they 
mend  and  wash  the  shirts  and  stockings  of  all  the 
other  prisoners  ;  they  make  hooks-and-eyes  and  phos- 
phorus-boxes, and  they  attend  chapel  every  Sunday ; 
— if  occupation  can  help  them,  sure  they  have  enough 
of  it.  Was  it  not  a  great  stroke  of  the  legislature  to 
superintend  the  morals  and  hnen  at  once,  and  thus 
keep  these  poor  creatures  continually  mending  ? — But 
we  have  passed  the  prison  long  ago,  and  are  at  the 
Porte  St.  Denis  itself. 

There  is  only  time  to  take  a  hasty  glance  as  we 
pass  :  it  commemorates  some  of  the  wonderful  feats 
of  arms  of  Ludovicus  Magnus,  and  abounds  in 
ponderous  allegories — nymphs,  and  river-gods,  and 
pyramids  crowned  with  fleurs-de-hs  ;  Louis  passing 
over  the  Rhine  in  triumph,  and  the  Dutch  Lion  giving 
up  the  ghost,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  1672.    The  Dutch 


SOME  PARISIAN  PHASES  97 

Lion  revived,  and  overcame  the  man  some  years 
afterwards  ;  but  of  this  fact,  singularly  enough,  the 
inscriptions  make  no  mention.  Passing,  then,  round 
the  gate,  and  not  under  it  (after  the  custom  in  respect 
of  triumphal  arches),  you  cross  the  Boulevard,  which 
gives  a  glimpse  of  trees  and  sunshine,  and  gleaming 
white  buildings ;  then,  dashing  down  the  Rue  de 
Bourbon  Villeneuve  .  .  .  and  the  Rue  St.  Eustace, 
the  conductor  gives  a  last  blast  on  his  horn,  and  the 
great  vehicle  clatters  into  the  courtyard,  where  its 
journey  is  destined  to  conclude. 

If  there  was  a  noise  before  of  screaming  postihons 
and  cracked  horns,  it  was  nothing  to  the  Babel-like 
clatter  which  greets  us  now.  We  are  in  a  great  court, 
which  Hajji  Baba  would  call  the  father  of  diligences. 
Half  a  dozen  other  coaches  arrive  at  the  same  minute 
— no  light  affairs,  like  your  English  vehicles,  but  pon- 
derous machines,  containing  fifteen  passengers  inside, 
more  in  the  cabriolet,  and  vast  towers  of  luggage  on 
the  roof :  others  are  loading  :  the  yard  is  filled  with 
passengers  coming  or  departing  ; — bustling  porters 
and  screaming  commissionaires.  These  latter  seize 
you  as  you  descend  from  your  place, — twenty  cards 
are  thrust  into  your  hand,  and  as  many  voices,  jabber- 
ing with  inconceivable  swiftness,  shriek  into  your 
ear,  '  Dis  way,  sare ;  are  you  for  ze  'Otel  of  Rhin  ? 
Hotel  de  I'  Amir  ante  ! — Hotel  Bristol,  sare  ! — Monsieur, 
I' Hotel  de  Lille  ?  Sacr-rrre  nom  de  Dieu,  laissez  passer  ce 
petit.  Monsieur  !    'Ow  mush  loggish  'ave  you,  sare  ?' 

And  now,  if  you  are  a  stranger  in  Paris,  listen  to 
the  words  of  Titmarsh. — If  you  cannot  speak  a 
syllable  of  French,  and  love  English  comfort,  clean 
rooms,  breakfasts,  and  waiters  :  if  you  would  have 
plentiful   dinners,    and   are   not    particular   (as   how 

7 


98  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

should  you  be  ?)  concerning  wine  ;  if,  in  this  foreign 
country,  you  will  have  your  English  companions, 
your  porter,  your  friend,  and  your  brandy- and-water 
— do  not  listen  to  any  of  these  commissioner  fellows, 
but  with  your  best  English  accent,  shout  out  boldly, 
'  Meurice  !'  and  straightway  a  man  will  step  forward 
to  conduct  you  to  the  Rue  de  RivoU.  Here  you  will 
find  apartments  at  any  price  :  ...  an  English  break- 
fast of  eternal  boiled  eggs,  or  grilled  ham  ;  a  nonde- 
script dinner,  profuse  but  cold ;  and  a  society  which 
will  rejoice  your  heart.  Here  are  the  young  gentlemen 
from  the  Universities  ;  young  merchants  on  a  lark  ; 
large  famihes  of  nine  daughters,  with  fat  father  and 
mother ;  officers  of  Dragoons,  and  lawyers'  clerks. 
The  last  time  we  dined  at '  Meurice's  '  we  hobbed  and 
nobbed  with  no  less  a  person  than  Mr.  Moses,  the 
celebrated  baihff  of  Chancery  Lane  ;  Lord  Brougham 
was  on  his  right,  and  a  clergyman's  lady,  with  a  train 
of  white-haired  girls,  sat  on  his  left,  wonderfully  taken 
with  the  diamond  rings  of  the  fascinating  stranger  ! 

It  is,  as  you  will  perceive,  an  admirable  way  to  see 
Paris,  especially  if  you  spend  your  days  reading  the 
English  papers  at  Gahgnani's,  as  many  of  our  foreign 
tourists  do. 

But  all  this  is  promiscuous,  and  not  to  the  purpose. 
If, — to  continue  the  subject  of  hotel  choosing, — ^if  you 
love  quiet,  heavy  bills,  and  the  best  table-d'hote  in  the 
city,  go,  O  stranger,  to  the  Hotel  des  Princes ;  it  is  close 
to  the  Boulevard,  and  convenient  for  Frascati's.  .  .  . 

If  you  are  a  poor  student  come  to  study  the 
humanities,  or  the  pleasant  art  of  amputation,  cross 
the  water  forthwith,  and  proceed  to  the  Hotel  Cor- 
neille,  near  the  Odeon,  or  others  of  its  species  ;  there 
are  many  where  you   can  live  royally   (until  you 


SOME  PARISIAN  PHASES  99 

economize  by  going  into  lodgings)  on  four  francs  a 
day ;  and  where,  if  by  any  strange  chance  you  are 
desirous  for  a  while  to  get  rid  of  your  countrymen, 
you  will  fmd  that  they  scarcely  ever  penetrate. 

WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY. 


ARRIVING  AT  MAGNIFICENT  PARIS 

By  L^'ons  and  the  Saone  (where  we  saw  the  lady  of 
Lyons  and  thought  httle  of  her  comeliness)  ;  by  Villa 
Franca,  Tonnere,  venerable  Sens,  Melun,  Fontaine- 
bleau,  and  scores  of  other  beautiful  cities,  we  swept. 
.  ,  .  We  bowled  along,  hour  after  hour,  that  brilHant 
summer  day,  and  as  nightfall  approached  we  entered 
a  wilderness  of  odorous  flowers  and  shrubbery,  sped 
through  it,  and  then,  excited,  delighted,  and  half  per- 
suaded that  we  were  only  the  sport  of  a  beautiful 
dream,  lo,  we  stood  in  magnificent  Paris  !  .  .  . 

In  a  httle  while  we  were  speeding  through  the 
streets  of  Paris,  and  delightfully  recognizing  certain 
names  and  places  with  which  books  had  long  ago 
made  us  famihar.  It  was  Uke  meeting  an  old  friend 
when  we  read  '  Rue  de  Rivoli  '  on  the  street  corner  ; 
we  knew  the  genuine  vast  palace  of  the  Louvre  as 
well  as  we  knew  its  picture  ;  when  we  passed  by  the 
Column  of  July  we  needed  no  one  to  tell  us  what  it 
was,  or  to  remind  us  that  on  its  site  once  stood  the 
grim  Bastille,  that  grave  of  human  hopes  and  happi- 
ness, that  dismal  prison-house  within  whose  dungeons 
so  many  young  faces  put  on  the  wrinkles  of  age,  so 
many  proud  spirits  grew  humble,  so  many  brave 
hearts  broke.  .  .  . 

We  went  out  to  a  restaurant,  just  after  lamp- 
lighting,  and  ate  a  comfortable,  satisfactory,  hngering 

7—2 


100  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

dinner.  It  was  a  pleasure  to  eat  where  everything  was 
so  tidy,  the  food  so  well  cooked,  the  waiters  so  polite, 
and  the  coming  and  departing  company  so  mous- 
tached,  so  frisky,  so  affable,  so  fearfully  and  wonder- 
fully Frenchy  !  All  the  surroundings  were  gay  and 
enlivening.  Two  hundred  people  sat  at  little  tables 
on  the  sidewalk,  sipping  wine  and  coffee ;  the  streets 
were  thronged  with  light  vehicles  and  with  joyous 
pleasure-seekers  ;  there  was  music  in  the  air,  Ufe  and 
action  all  about  us,  and  a  conflagration  of  gaslight 
everywhere  ! 

After  dinner  we  felt  like  seeing  such  Parisian 
specialities  as  we  might  see  without  distressing  exer- 
tion, and  so  we  sauntered  through  the  briUiant  streets 
and  looked  at  the  dainty  trifles  in  variety  stores  and 
jewellery  shops.  Occasionally,  merely  for  the  pleasure 
of  being  cruel,  we  put  unoffending  Frenchmen  on  the 
rack  with  questions  framed  in  the  incomprehensible 
jargon  of  their  native  language,  and  while  they  writhed, 
we  impaled  them,  we  peppered  them,  we  sacrificed 
them  with  their  own  vile  verbs  and  participles.  .  .  . 

At  eleven  o'clock  we  alighted  upon  a  sign  which 
manifestly  referred  to  bilHards.  Joy  !  We  had  played 
billiards  in  the  Azores  Vvdth  balls  that  were  not  round, 
and  on  an  ancient  table  that  was  very  httle  smoother 
than  a  brick  pavement — one  of  those  wretched  old 
things  with  dead  cushions,  and  with  patches  in  the 
faded  cloth  and  invisible  obstructions  that  made  the 
balls  describe  the  most  astonishing  and  unsuspected 
angles  and  perform  feats  in  the  way  of  unlooked-for 
and  almost  impossible  '  scratches,'  that  were  perfectly 
bewildering.  We  had  played  at  Gibraltar  with  balls 
the  size  of  a  walnut,  on  a  table  hke  a  public  square — 
and  in  both  instances  we  achieved  far  more  aggrava- 


SOME  PARISIAN  PHASES  loi 

tion  than  amusement.  We  expected  to  fare  better 
here,  but  we  were  mistaken.  The  cushions  were  a 
good  deal  higher  than  the  balls,  and  as  the  balls  had 
a  fashion  of  always  stopping  under  the  cushions,  we 
accomplished  very  little  in  the  way  of  cannon.  The 
cushions  were  hard  and  unelastic,  and  the  cues  were 
so  crooked  that  in  making  a  shot  you  had  to  allow 
for  the  curve,  or  you  would  infallibly  put  the  '  Eng- 
lish '  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  ball.  Dan  was  to  mark 
while  the  doctor  and  I  played.  At  the  end  of  an  hour 
neither  of  us  had  made  a  count,  and  so  Dan  was  tired 
of  keeping  tally  with  nothing  to  tally,  and  we  were 
heated  and  angry  and  disgusted.  We  paid  the  heavy 
bill — about  six  cents — and  promised  ourselves  that 
we  would  call  around  some  time  when  we  had  a  week 
to  spend,  and  finish  the  game. 

We  adjourned  to  one  of  those  pretty  cafes  and  took 
supper  and  tested  the  wines  of  the  country,  as  we 
had  been  instructed  to  do,  and  found  them  harmless 
and  unexciting.  They  might  have  been  exciting,  how- 
ever, if  we  had  chosen  to  drink  a  sufficiency  of  them. 

To  close  our  first  day  in  Paris  cheerfully  and 
pleasantly,  we  now  sought  our  grand  room  in  the 
Grand  Hotel  du  Louvre  and  cHmbed  into  our  sump- 
tuous bed,  .  .  .  then  feebly  wondered  if  we  were 
really  and  truly  in  renowned  Paris,  and  drifted 
drowsily  away  into  that  vast  mj'sterious  void  which 
men  call  sleep.  ^^^^^^^  ^.^^^^^ 


A  FIRST  JOURXEY  TO  PARIS 

I  COULD  never  forget  my  first  journey  to  Paris  in  a 
third-class  carriage. 

It  was  near  the  end  of  February,  and  the  cold  was 


102  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

still  very  gieat.  Outside  was  the  grey  sky,  \\dnd,  frost, 
bare  hills,  long  rows  of  leafless  vines  ;  inside  were 
sailors  singing,  great  rough  peasants  snoring  away 
\vith  their  mouths  wide  open.  .  .  .  The  journey  lasted 
two  days.  All  that  time  I  never  stirred.  I  sat  with 
clenched  teeth,  jammed  between  two  torments,  with- 
out room  to  turn  my  head.  As  I  had  neither  money 
nor  provisions,  I  was  fasting  the  whole  time.  Two 
days  without  food  seemed  very  long.  I  had  indeed  a 
two-franc  piece,  but  I  knew  I  should  want  it  worse 
when  I  got  to  Paris,  if  I  did  not  find  Jack  at  the 
station,  and  I  manfully  resisted  the  temptation  to 
spend  any  of  it.  .  .  , 

On  the  second  night,  about  three  o'clock  I  was  sud- 
denly awakened.  The  train  had  stopped,  the  carriage 
was  all  ahve.  I  heard  the  warder  say  to  his  wife, 
*  Here  we  are  !' 

'  Where  ?'  said  I,  rubbing  my  eyes. 

'  Bless  your  soul,  at  Paris  !' 

I  got  to  the  door ;  I  could  see  no  houses,  nothing 
but  a  bare  place  with  some  gas-lights,  some  heaps  of 
coal,  and  a  great  red  light  a  little  way  off.  There  was 
a  confused  rumbling — something  hke  the  noise  of  the 
sea,  and  a  man  with  a  lantern  v/as  going  along  calling 
out,  '  Paris  !    All  tickets  ready  !    Paris  !' 

I  felt  a  thrill  of  fear.  I  had  good  reason  for  that 
thrill,  if  I  had  only  known  it.  Five  minutes  later  we 
were  in  the  station. 

There  was  Jack  !  He  had  been  there  for  the  last 
hour.  I  saw  his  tall  figure  in  the  distance,  behind 
the  barrier,  wdth  his  long  arms  going  hke  a  semaphore. 
I  forgot  how  cramped  I  was,  and  sprang  to  him. 

'  Jack  !    My  dear  old  fellow  !' 

How  we  hugged  each  other  !     Unluckily,  railway- 


SOME  PARISIAN  PHASES  103 

stations  are  not  meant  for  such  effusions.  There  are 
waiting-rooms  and  luggage-rooms,  but  there  is  no 
room  for  sentiment — no  place  for  anything  but  bodies. 
So  we  were  jostled  and  trampled  on,  and  the  officials 
kept  crying,  '  Get  on,  get  on  !' 

'  Come  along,'  said  Jack  ;  '  I'll  get  your  trunk  to- 
morrow.' 

And  arm  in  arm,  with  hearts  as  light  as  our  purses, 
we  set  off  for  the  Ouartier  Latin. 

I  have  tried  since  to  recall  the  fireside  impression 
that  Paris  made  on  me  that  night ;  but  I  have  often 
found  that  places,  like  men,  have  a  special  physiog- 
nomy the  first  time  we  see  them,  which  we  never 
catch  again.  Paris  has  never  looked  to  me  again  as 
it  did  that  night.  In  vain  I  try  to  find  it :  it  is  like 
the  recollection  one  has  of  a  town  which  one  has 
passed  through  in  a  fog  long  ago. 

I  remember  a  bridge  over  a  black  river,  quays  all 
deserted,  and  an  immense  garden  on  the  other  side 
of  the  quay.  I  could  dimly  see,  through  the  raiUngs, 
buildings  like  huts,  trees  shining  with  frost,  and 
pieces  of  water ;  and  I  heard  strange  sounds  in  the 
gloom.    My  arm  trembled,  but  Jack  said : 

'  That's  the  Zoological  Gardens  ;  it  is  full  of  lions 
and  tigers  and  hippopotamuses.' 

In  fact,  we  could  smell  the  wild  beasts,  and  now 
and  then  a  shrill  cry  or  a  hoarse  roar  reached  our 
ears.  I  was  fascinated  ;  I  could  not  help  stopping 
and  trying  to  penetrate  the  gloom  with  my  eyes.  The 
mysterious  garden  seemed  to  mingle  with  the  species 
of  awe  which  I  felt  of  Paris  that  first  night,  and  I 
seemed  to  have  j  ust  landed  in  some  gruesome  cavern  full 
of  ferocious  animals  ready  to  spring  upon  me.  Happily 
for  me  I  was  not  alone,  Jack's  arm  was  round  me. 


104  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

On  we  went,  ever  so  far,  through  interminable 
black  streets.  At  length  we  halted  in  a  little  square 
where  there  was  a  church. 

'  We  are  just  at  home  now,'  said  Jack.  '  That  is 
St.  Germain  des  Pres.    Our  room  is  up  there.' 

'  What !  in  the  steeple  ?' 

'  Very  nearly  ;  it  is  convenient  for  knowing  the 
hour.' 

He  was  not  exaggerating.  His  little  garret  was  in 
the  sixth  story  of  the  house  adjoining  the  church, 
and  his  window  opened  on  the  steeple  just  opposite 
the  dial.  Wearily  I  toiled  up  the  stairs  ;  but  when  he 
opened  the  door,  I  gave  a  cry  of  joy.  A  fire  !  Oh,  how 
heavenly  !  and  I  ran  to  the  fireplace  to  hold  my  feet 
to  the  blaze,  at  the  risk  of  melting  my  goloshes.  Then 
for  the  first  time  Jack  perceived  how  I  was  shod ;  he 
laughed  heartily. 

'  Well !'  said  he,  '  many  celebrated  men  have 
reached  Paris  in  wooden  shoes,  and  are  proud  of  it, 
but  you  may  boast  of  being  the  only  one  who  has 
ever  arrived  in  goloshes — it  is  original.' 

The  great  clock  of  St.  Germain  boomed  out  its 
twelve  heavy  strokes,  followed  by  the  Angelus, 
almost  in  my  ears.  The  sonorous  tones  fell  in  triplets, 
and  seemed  to  fill  the  room  with  floating  sound.  All 
the  other  steeples  of  Paris  took  up  the  Angelus  in 
their  various  keys,  and,  as  if  attracted  by  the  chimes, 
a  ray  of  sun  broke  through  the  dusky  clouds  and 
made  the  wet  roofs  glisten.  Far  beneath  me  Paris 
was  growhng  and  rumbling.  I  stood  for  a  little  while 
watching  the  domes,  the  spires,  the  towers,  as  they 
caught  the  sunsliine,  and  then,  as  the  roar  of  the 
great  city  came  surging  up,  I  felt  a  v/ild  longing  to 


SOME  PARISIAN  PHASES  105 

go  and  mingle  in  the  crowd  of  life  below,  and  I 
said,  with  a  sort  of  intoxication,  '  I  will  go  and  see 
Paris.' 

ALPHONSE  DAUDET. 
Translated  by  L.  Ford. 


AUX  ITALIENS 

At  Paris  it  was,  at  the  Opera  there  ; — 

And  she  looked  Hke  a  queen  in  a  book,  that  night. 
With  the  wreath  of  pearl  in  her  raven  hair. 

And  the  brooch  on  her  breast,  so  bright. 

Of  all  the  operas  that  Verdi  wrote, 
The  best,  to  my  taste,  is  the  Trovatore  ; 

And  Mario  can  soothe  with  a  tenor  note 
The  souls  in  Purgatory. 

The  moon  on  the  tower  slept  soft  as  snow  : 

And  who  was  not  thrilled  in  the  strangest  waj'. 
As  we  heard  him  sing,  while  the  gas  burned  low, 
*  Non  ti  scordar  di  me  '? 

The  Emperor  there,  in  his  box  of  state, 
Looked  grave,  as  if  he  had  just  then  seen 

The  red  flag  wave  from  the  city  gate. 
Where  his  eagles  in  bronze  had  been. 

The  Empress,  too,  had  a  tear  in  her  eye. 

You'd  have  said  that   her   fancy  had  gone   back 
again, 
For  one  moment  under  the  old  blue  sky. 

To  the  old  glad  hfe  in  Spain.  .  .  . 

OWEN    MEREDITH    (LORD    LYTTON). 


io6  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER  IN  PARIS 

We  journeyed  on  again,  and  I  welcomed  every  new 
assurance  that  France  stood  where  I  had  left  it. 
There  were  .  .  .  posting-houses  .  .  .  and  clean  post- 
masters' wives,  bright  women  of  business  looking  on 
at  the  putting- to  of  the  horses  ;  there  were  the  pos- 
tilions counting  what  money  they  got,  into  their  hats, 
and  never  making  enough  of  it ;  there  were  the  stan- 
dard population  of  grey  horses  of  Flanders  descent,  in- 
variably biting  one  another  when  they  got  a  chance  ; 
there  were  the  fleecy  sheepskins,  looped  on  over  their 
uniforms  by  the  postilions,  hke  bibbed  aprons,  when  it 
blew  and  rained;  there  were  their  jack-boots,  and 
their  cracking  whips  ;  there  were  the  cathedrals  that  I 
got  out  to  see,  as  under  some  cruel  bondage,  in  no\vise 
desiring  to  see  them  ;  there  were  the  httle  towns  that 
appeared  to  have  no  reason  for  being  towns,  since  most 
of  their  houses  were  to  let  and  nobody  could  be  in- 
duced to  look  at  them,  except  the  people  who  couldn't 
let  them  and  had  nothing  else  to  do  but  look  at  them 
all  day.  ...  At  last  I  was  rattled,  hke  a  single  pill  in  a 
box,  over  leagues  of  stones,  until — madly  cracking, 
plunging,  and  flourishing  two  grey  tails  about — I 
made  my  triumphal  entry  into  Paris. 

At  Paris,  I  took  an  upper  apartment  for  a  few  days 
in  one  of  the  hotels  of  the  Rue  de  RivoH ;  my  front 
windows  looking  into  the  garden  of  the  Tuileries 
(where  the  principal  difference  between  the  nurse- 
maids and  the  flowers  seemed  to  be  that  the  former 
were  locomotive  and  the  latter  not)  :  my  back  win- 
dows looking  at  all  the  other  back  windows  in  the 
hotel,  and  deep  down  into  a  paved  yard,  where  my 
German  chariot  had  retired  under  a  tight-fitting  arch- 


SOME  PARISIAN  PHASES  107 

way,  to  all  appearances  for  life,  and  where  bells  rang 
all  day  without  anybody's  minding  them  but  certain 
chamberlains  with  feather  brooms  and  green  baize 
caps,  who  here  and  there  leaned  out  of  some  high 
window  placidly  looking  do-vn,  and  where  neat 
waiters  with  trays  on  their  left  shoulders  passed  and 
repassed  from  morning  to  night. 

Whenever  I  am  at  Paris,  I  am  dragged  by  invisible 
force  into  the  Morgue.  I  never  want  to  go  there, 
but  am  ahvays  pulled  there.  .  .  .  One  New  Year's 
Morning  (by  the  same  token,  the  sun  was  shining  out- 
side and  there  was  a  mountebank  balancing  a  feather 
on  his  nose,  within  a  yard  of  the  gate),  I  was  pulled  in 
again  to  look  at  a  flaxen-haired  boy  of  eighteen,  with 
a  heart  hanging  on  his  breast — '  from  his  mother,'  was 
engraven  on  it — who  had  come  into  the  net  across 
the  river,  with  a  bullet  wound  in  his  fair  forehead  and 
his  hands  cut  with  a  knife,  but  wiience  or  how  was  a 
blank  mystery.  .  .  . 

On  a  bright  morning  I  rattled  away  from  Paris.  .  .  . 
Welcome  agdn,  the  long,  long  spell  of  France,  with  the 
queer  country  inns,  full  of  vases  of  flowers  and  clocks, 
in  the  dull  Uttle  towns,  and  with  the  little  population 
not  at  all  dull  on  the  httle  Boulevard  in  the  evening, 
under  the  httle  trees  !  Welcome,  Monsieur  the  Cure, 
walking  along  in  the  early  morning  a  short  way  out  of 
the  town,  reading  that  eternal  Breviary  of  3-ours  which 
surely  might  be  abnost  read,  without  book,  by  this 
time  !  Welcome,  Monsieur  the  Cure,  later  in  tlie  day, 
jolting  through  the  highway  dust  (as  if  you  had  al- 
ready ascended  to  the  cloudy  region),  in  a  very  big- 
headed  cabriolet,  with  the  dried  mud  of  a  dozen  win- 
ters on  it.  Welcome  again.  Monsieur  the  Cure,  as  we 
excliange  salutatiuns ;  you,  straightening  your  back 


io8  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

to  look  at  the  German  chariot,  while  picking  in  your 
little  village  garden  a  vegetable  or  two  for  the  day's 
soup  ;  I  looking  out  of  the  German  chariot  window  in 
that  delicious  traveller's  trance  which  knows  no  cares, 
no  yesterdays,  no  to-morrows,  nothing  but  the  passing 
objects  and  the  passing  scents  and  sounds  ! 

CHARLES    DICKENS. 

IN  THE  CROWD 

Ah  yes  ;  Alphonse  had  seen  in  that  hotel 
So  many  lovers  on  their  honeymoon  ; 
But  never  such  a  pair  as  this.     Monsieur 
Seemed  so  well-formed,  so  sunny  and  so  young  ; 
And  ah,  how  bright,  how  piquante  was  Madame. 

Monsieur  was  quite  her  slave,  too  ;  you  could  see 

Love  was  completely  new  to  him  :  he  flushed 

With  pride  and  pleasure  if  he  had  to  stoop 

A  thousand  times  a  day  to  tie  the  lace 

Of  that  provoking  little  shoe  of  hers  ; 

And  ah,  no  doubt,  she  loved  Monsieur  so  well ; 

For  they  went  out  together  every  night 

As  happily  as  children  going  to  spend 

A  penny  at  a  fair.     These  Englishmen 

In  love  are  wonderful  sweet  simpletons  ! 

We  French  are  masters  of  a  compliment ; 

We  dice  for  hearts  and  roses,  dreams  and  tears, 

And  smiling  quite  impartially  admire 

The  dainty  frills  around  a  woman's  feet 

Much  the  same  way  as  we  admire  her  soul.  .  .  i 

Well,  in  this  room — they  were  not  very  rich, 
And  so  they  took  the  smallest  room  we  had — 
Monsieur  would  sit  and  watch  her  sweet  bright  eyes, 


SOME  PARISIAN  PHASES  109 

Or  hold  her  hand  and  wonder  if  it  all 
Would  vanish  like  a  dream  ;  it  was  too  good, 
Too  beautiful  a  story  to  be  true. 

He  had  not  won  her  easily  :  he  seemed 

Hardly  to  understand  she  was  his  own. 

He  used  to  sit  and  watch  her  when  she  read 

Or  played  at  painting  in  the  sunhght  here  ; 

Ah,  heaven  !     Lamplight  and  water-colours,  eh  ? 

But  he,  he  thought,  even  when  the  dayUght  came, 

They  were  the  loveliest  pictures  in  the  world. 

And  every  day  they  went  to  see  the  sights, 

St.  Cloud,  Versailles,  and  Notre  Dame  ;  and  all 

For  him  at  least  was  consecrated  ground  ; 

She  brought  a  halo  with  her,  and  when  they  heai^d 

The  choirs  in  Catholic  churches,  why,  her  face 

Made  him  forget  he  was  a  Protestant, 

Made  him  afraid  almost  to  feel  his  heart 

Uphft  to  God  Hke  this,  by  ahen  prayers. 

Was  it  not  simple  ?     Yes,  hke  little  children, 

They  hardly  understood  the  wickedness 

That  passed  them  in  the  streets  :  they  did  not  know 

How  dark  a  place  this  Paris  is  at  best.  .  .  . 

ALFRED    NOYES. 

REVISITING  PARIS 

The  Caf6  Procope  (in  the  Rue  des  Foss6s-Saint-Ger- 
main)  has  been  much  altered  and  improved,  and  bears 
an  inscription  telling  the  date  of  its  estabHshment, 
which  was  in  the  year  1689.  I  entered  the  cafe,  whicli 
was  nearly  or  quite  empty,  the  usual  breakfast  hour 
being  past. 

Gar^on  /     Unc  iasse  de  cafe. 


no  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

n  there  is  a  river  of  mneme  as  a  counterpart  of  the 
river  lethe,  my  cup  of  coffee  must  have  got  its  water 
from  that  stream  of  memory.  If  I  could  borrow  that 
eloquence  of  Jouffroy  which  made  his  hearers  turn 
pale,  I  might  bring  up  before  my  readers  a  long  array 
of  pallid  ghosts,  w^hom  these  walls  knew  weU  in  their 
earthly  habiliments.  Only  a  single  one  of  those  I  met 
here  stiU  survives.  The  rest  are  mostly  well-nigh  for- 
gotten by  all  but  a  few  friends,  or  remembered  chiefly 
in  their  children  and  grandchildren.  '  How  much  ?'  I 
said  to  the  gar^on  in  his  native  tongue,  or  what  I 
supposed  to  be  that  language.  '  Cinq  sous,'  was  his 
answer.  By  the  laws  of  sentiment,  I  ought  to  have 
made  the  ignoble  sum  five  francs,  at  least.  But  if  I 
had  done  so,  the  waiter  would  undoubtedly  have 
thought  I  had  just  come  from  Charenton.  Besides, 
why  should  I  violate  the  simple  habits  and  traditions 
of  the  place,  where  generation  after  generation  of  poor 
students  and  threadbare  Bohemians  had  taken  their 
morning  coffee  and  pocketed  their  two  lumps  of 
sugar  ?  It  was  with  a  feeling  of  virile  sanity  and 
Roman  self-conquest  that  I  paid  my  five  sous,  with 
the  small  additional  fraction  which  I  supposed  the 
waiter  to  expect,  and  no  more. 

So  I  passed  for  the  last  time  over  the  threshold  of 
the  Cafe  Procope,  where  Voltaire  had  matured  his 
plays  and  Piron  sharpened  his  epigrams ;  where 
Jouffroy  had  battled  with  his  doubts  and  fears, 
where,  since  their  time — since  my  days  of  Parisian 
life — the  terrible  storming  youth,  afterwards  re- 
nowned as  Leon  Michel  Gambetta,  had  startled  the 
quiet  guests  with  his  noisy  eloquence,  till  the  old 
habitues  spilled  their  coffee,  and  the  red-capped 
students  said  to  each  other,  *  //  ira  loin,  ce  gaillard-la  !' 


SOME  PARISIAN  PHASES  iii 

But  what  to  me  were  these  shadov/y  figures  by  the 
side  of  the  group  of  my  early  friends  and  companions, 
that  came  up  before  me  in  all  the  freshness  of  their 
5'oung  manhood  ?  The  memory  of  them  recalls  my 
own  youthful  daj'S,  and  I  need  not  go  to  Florida  to 
bathe  in  the  fountain  of  Ponce  de  Leon.  .  .  . 

I  looked  forward  with  the  greatest  interest  to  re- 
visiting the  Gallery  of  the  Louvre,  accompanied  by  my 
long-treasured  recollections.  .  .  .  The  pictures  greeted 
me,  so  I  fancied,  hke  old  acquaintances.  The  meek- 
looking  '  Belle  Jardiniere '  was  as  lamblike  as  ever  ; 
the  pearly  njinph  of  Correggio  invited  the  stranger's 
eye  as  frankly  as  of  old  ;  Titian's  young  man  with  the 
glove  was  the  calm,  self-contained  gentleman  I  used 
to  admire  ;  the  splashy  Rubenses,  the  pallid  Guidos, 
the  sunlit  Claudes,  the  shadowy  Poussins,  the  moonlit 
Girardets,  Gericault's  terrible  shipwreck  of  the  Me- 
dusa, the  exquisite  home  pictures  of  Gerard  Douw  and 
Terburg, — all  these  and  many  more  have  always  been 
on  exhibition  in  my  ideal  gallery.  .  .  . 

Paris  as  seen  b}^  the  morning  sun  of  three  or  four  and 
twenty  and  Paris  in  the  twilight  of  the  superfluous 
decade  cannot  be  expected  to  look  exactly  alike.  I 
well  remember  my  first  breakfast  at  a  Parisian  cafe  in 
the  spring  of  1833.  It  was  in  the  Place  de  la  Bourse, 
on  a  beautiful  sunshiny  morning.  The  coffee  was  nec- 
tar, the  finite  was  ambrosia,  the  brioche  was  more  than 
good  enough  for  the  Olympians.  Such  an  experience 
could  not  repeat  itself  fifty  years  later.  .  .  .  Nothing 
looked  more  nearly  the  same  as  of  old  than  the 
bridges.  The  Pont  Neuf  did  not  seem  to  me  altered. 
Though  we  had  read  in  the  papers  that  it  was  in  ruins 
or  seriously  injured  in  consequence  of  a  great  flood. 
The  statues  had  been  removed  from  the  Pont  Royal, 


112  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

one  or  two  new  bridges  had  been  built,  but  all  was 
natural  enough,  and  I  was  tempted  to  look  for  the  old 
woman,  at  the  end  of  the  Pont  des  Arts,  who  used  to 
sell  me  a  bunch  of  violets  for  two  or  three  sous — such 
35  would  cost  me  a  quarter  of  a  dollar  in  Boston.  I  did 
not  see  the  three  objects  which  a  popular  saying  alleges 
are  always  to  be  met  on  the  Pont  Neuf :  a  priest,  a 
soldier,  and  a  white  horse. 

OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES. 

TO  A  REPUBLICAN  FRIEND 
God  knows  it,  I  am  with  you.     If  to  prize 
Those  virtues,  priz'd  and  practis'd  by  too  few, 
But  priz'd,  but  lov'd,  but  eminent  in  you, 
Man's  fundamental  hfe  :  if  to  despise 
The  barren  optimistic  sophistries 
Of  comfortable  moles,  whom  what  they  do 
Teaches  the  limit  of  the  just  and  true — 
And  for  such  doing  have  no  need  of  eyes  : 
If  sadness  at  the  long  heart-wasting  show 
Wherein  earth's  great  ones  are  disquieted  : 
If  thoughts,  not  idle,  while  before  me  flow 
The  armies  of  the  homeless  and  unfed  : — • 
If  these  are  yours,  if  this  is  what  you  are, 
Then  am  I  yours,  and  what  j^ou  feel,  I  share. 

Yet,  when  I  muse  on  what  life  is,  I  seem 
Rather  to  patience  prompted,  than  that  proud 
Prospect  of  hope  which  France  proclaims  so  loud, 
France,  fam'd  in  all  great  arts,  in  none  supreme. 
Seeing  this  Vale,  this  Earth,  whe;eon  we  dream, 
Is  on  all  sides  o'ershadowed  by  the  high 
Uno'erleap'd  Mountains  of  Necessity, 
Sparing  us  narrower  margin  than  we  deem. 


SOME  PARISIAN  PHASES  113 

Nor  will  that  day  dawn  at  a  human  nod, 

When,  bursting  through  the  network  superpos'd 

By  selfish  occupation — plot  and  plan, 

Lust,  avarice,  envy — liberated  man, 

All  difference  with  his  fellow-man  compos'd. 

Shall  be  left  standing  face  to  face  with  God. 

MATTHEW   ARNOLD. 

BALLADE  OF  THE  WOMEN  OF  PARIS 
I 
Though  folk  deem  women  young  and  old 

Of  Venice  and  Genoa  well  eno' 
Favoured  with  speech,  both  gUb  nnd  bold, 

On  lovers'  messages  for  to  go, 

I,  at  my  peril,  I  say  no. 
Though  Lombards  and  Romans  patter  well, 

Savoyards,  Florentines,  less  or  mo' — 
The  wometi  of  Paris  bear  th:.  hell. 

II 
The  Naples  women  (so  we  are  told) 

Are  pleasant  enough  of  speech,  and  so 
Are  Prussians  and  Austrians.     Some  folk  hold 

Greeks  and  Egyptians  sweet  of  show  : 

But  hail  they  from  Athens  or  Grand  Cairo, 
Castille  or  Hungary,  heaven  or  hell. 

For  dulcet  speech,  over  friend  and  foe. 
The  women  of  Paris  bear  the  bell. 

Ill 
Switzers  nor  Bretons  know  how  to  scold. 

Nor  Provence  nor  Gascony  women  :  lo  ! 
Two  fishfags  in  Paris  the  bridge  that  hold 
Would  slang  them  dumb  in  a  minute,  I  trow. 

8 


114  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

Picardy,  England,  Lorraine,  St.  L6 
(Is  that  enough  places  for  one  spell  ?), 

Valenciennes,  Calais,  search  high  and  low, 
The  women  of  Paris  hear  the  bell. 

Envoi. 

Prince,  to  the  Paris  ladies  we  owe 
The  prize  of  sweet  speech  ;  for  they  excel : 

They  may  talk  of  Itahans  ;  but  this  I  know, 
The  women  of  Paris  bear  the  bell. 

FRANCOIS   VILLON. 
Done  into  English  by  John  Payne. 

PARIS  :  HER  LIIMITLESS  AMUSEMENTS 
The  Dwarf 

I  HAD  never  heard  the  remark  made  by  anyone  in  my 
hfe,  except  by  one  ;  and  who  that  was  will  probably 
come  out  in  this  chapter  ;  so  that,  being  pretty  much 
unprepossessed,  there  must  have  been  grounds  for 
what  struck  me  the  moment  I  cast  my  eyes  over  the 
parterre, — and  that  was  the  unaccountable  sport  of 
Nature  in  forming  such  numbers  of  dwarfs. — No 
doubt,  she  sports  at  certain  times  in  almost  every 
corner  of  the  world  :  but  in  Paris  there  is  no  end  to  her 
amusements. — ^The  goddess  seems  almost  as  merry  as 
she  is  wise. 

As  I  carried  my  idea  out  of  the  Opera  Comique  with 
me,  I  measured  everybody  I  saw  walking  in  the  streets 
by  it.  Melancholy  application  !  especially  where  the 
size  was  extremely  little, — ^the  face  extremely  dark, — 
the  eyes  quick, — the  nose  long, — the  teeth  white, — 
the  jaw  prominent, — to  see  so  many  miserables,  by 
force  of  accidents,  driven  out  of  theii"  own  proper  class 


SOME  PARISIAN  PHASES  115 

into  the  very  verge  of  another,  which  it  gives  me  pain 
to  write  down  : — every  third  man  a  pigmy  ; — some  by 
rickety  heads  and  hump-backs  ; — others  by  bandy 
legs  ; — a  third  set  arrested  by  the  hand  of  Nature  in 
the  sixth  and  seventh  years  of  their  growth  ; — a  fourth, 
in  their  perfect  and  natural  state,  like  dwarf  apple- 
trees  ;  from  the  first  rudiments  and  stamina  of  their 
existence,  never  meant  to  grow  higher. 

A  Medical  Traveller  might  say  'tis  owing  to  undue 
bandages  ; — a  Splenetic  one,  to  want  of  air  ; — and  an 
Inquisitive  Traveller,  to  fortify  the  system,  may 
measure  the  height  of  their  houses, — the  narrowness 
of  their  streets,  and  in  how  few  feet  square  in  the  sixth 
and  seventh  stories  such  numbers  of  the  Bourgeoisie ezX 
and  sleep  together.  But  I  remember,  Mr.  Shandy  the 
Elder,  who  accounted  for  nothing  like  anybody  else, 
in  speaking  one  evening  of  these  matters,  averred  that 
children,  hke  other  animals,  might  be  increased  almost 
to  any  size,  provided  they  came  right  into  the  world  ; 
but  the  misery  was,  the  citizens  of  Paris  were  so  coop'd 
up  that  they  had  not  actually  room  enough  to  get 
them. — I  do  not  call  it  getting  anything,  said  he  ; — 
'tis  getting  nothing. — Nay,  continued  he,  rising  in  his 
argument,  'tis  getting  worse  than  nothing,  when  all 
you  have  got,  after  twenty  or  five-and-twenty  years  of 
the  tenderest  care  and  most  nutritious  aliment  be- 
stowed upon  it,  shaU  not  at  last  be  as  high  as  my  leg. 
Now,  Mr.  Shandy  being  very  short,  there  could  be 
nothing  more  said  of  it. 

As  this  is  not  a  work  of  reasoning,  I  leave  the  solu- 
tion as  I  found  it,  and  content  myself  with  the  truth 
only  of  the  remark,  which  is  verified  in  every  lane  and 
by-lane  of  Paris.  I  was  walking  down  that  which  leads 
from  the  Carrousel  to  the  Palais  Royal,  and  observing 

&-2 


ii6  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

a  little  boy  in  some  distress  at  the  side  of  the  gutter 
which  ran  down  the  middle  of  it,  I  took  hold  of  his 
hand,  and  helped  him  over.  Upon  turning  up  his  face 
to  look  at  him  after,  I  perceived  he  was  about  forty. — 
Never  mind,  said  I,  some  good  body  will  do  as  much 
for  me  when  I  am  ninety. 

I  feel  some  little  principles  within  me,  which  incline 
me  to  be  merciful  towards  this  poor  blighted  part  of 
my  species,  who  have  neither  size  nor  strength  to  get 
on  in  the  world. — I  cannot  bear  to  see  one  of  them  trod 
upon  ;  and  had  scarce  got  seated  beside  my  old  French 
officer  ere  the  disgust  was  exercised  by  seeing  the  very 
thing  happen  under  the  box  we  sat  in. 

At  the  end  of  the  orchestra,  and  betwixt  that  and 
the  first  side-box,  there  is  a  small  esplanade  left,  where, 
when  the  house  is  full,  numbers  of  all  ranks  take  sanc- 
tuary. Though  you  stand,  as  in  the  parterre,  you  pay 
the  same  price  as  in  the  orchestra.  A  poor,  defence- 
less being  of  this  order  had  got  thrust,  somehow  or 
other,  into  this  luckless  place  ; — the  night  was  hot,  and 
he  was  surrounded  by  beings  two  feet  and  a  half  higher 
than  himself.  The  dwarf  suffered  inexpressibly  on  all 
sides  ;  but  the  thing  which  incommoded  him  most  was 
a  tall,  corpulent  German,  near  seven  feet  high,  who 
stood  directly  betwixt  him  and  all  possibility  of  his 
seeing  either  the  stage  or  the  actors.  The  poor  dwarf 
did  all  he  could  to  get  a  peep  at  what  was  going  for- 
wards, by  seeking  for  some  little  opening  betwixt  the 
German's  arm  and  his  body,  trying  first  on  one  side 
then  on  the  other  ;  but  the  German  stood  square  in 
the  most  unaccommodating  posture  that  can  be 
imagined  : — the  dwarf  might  as  well  have  been  placed 
at  the  bottom  of  the  deepest  draw-well  in  Paris  ;  so  he 
civilly  reached  up  his  hand  to  the  German's  sleeve,  and 


SOME  PARISIAN  PHASES  117 

told  him  his  distress. — The  German  turned  his  head 
back,  looked  down  upon  him  as  Goliath  did  upon 
David, — and  unfeelingly  resumed  his  posture. 

I  was  just  then  taking  a  pinch  of  snuff  out  of  my 
monk's  little  horn-box. — And  how  would  thy  meek 
and  courteous  spirit,  my  dear  monk,  so  tempered  to 
hear  and  forbear  ! — how  sweetly  would  it  have  lent  an 
ear  to  this  poor  soul's  complaint  ! 

The  old  French  ofhcer  seeing  me  lift  up  my  eyes 
with  emotion,  as  I  made  the  apostrophe,  took  the 
liberty  to  ask  me  what  was  the  matter  ? — I  told  him 
the  story  in  three  words,  and  added,  how  inhuman  it 
was. 

By  this  time  the  dwarf  was  driven  to  extremes,  and 
in  his  first  transports,  which  are  generally  unreason- 
able, had  told  the  German  he  would  cut  off  his  long 
queue  with  his  knife. — The  German  looked  back 
coolly,  and  told  him  he  was  welcome,  if  he  could 
reach  it. 

An  injury  sharpened  by  an  insult,  be  it  to  whom  it 
will,  makes  every  man  of  sentiment  a  party  :  I  could 
have  leaped  out  of  the  box  to  have  redressed  it. — The 
old  French  officer  did  it  with  much  less  confusion  ;  for, 
leaning  a  little  over,  and  nodding  to  a  sentinel,  and 
pointing  at  the  same  time,  with  his  finger,  at  the  dis- 
tress,— the  sentinel  made  his  way  to  it. — There  was  no 
occasion  to  tell  the  grievance,  the  thing  told  itself ; 
so,  thrusting  back  the  German  instantly  with  his  mus- 
ket,— he  took  the  poor  dwarf  by  the  hand,  and  placed 
him  before  him. — This  is  noble  !  said  I,  clapping  my 
han<ls  together. — And  yet  you  woukl  not  permit  this, 
saitl  the  old  officer,  in  ICngland, 

— In  England,  dear  Sir,  said  I,  we  sit  all  at  our  ease. 

The  old  French  officer  would  have  sot  me  at  unity 


ii8  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

with  myself,  in  case  I  had  been  at  variance, — ^by  saying 
it  was  a  bon  mot ; — and,  as  a  bon  mot  is  always  worth 
something  in  Paris,  he  offered  me  a  pinch  of  snuff. 

LAURENCE  STERNE. 
AT  THE  AMBASSADEURS 

To   YVETTE   GUILBERT 

That  was  Yvette.    The  blithe  Ambassadeurs 
Glitters,  this  Sunday  of  the  Fete  des  Fleurs  ; 
Here  are  the  flowers,  too,  living  flowers  that  blow 
A  night  or  two  before  the  odours  go  ; 
And  all  the  flowers  of  all  the  city  ways 
Are  laughing,  with  Yvette,  this  day  of  days. 
Laugh,  with  Yvette  ?     But  I  must  first  forget, 
Before  I  laugh,  that  I  have  heard  Yvette. 
For  the  flowers  fade  before  her  ;  see,  the  light 
Dies  out  of  that  poor  cheek,  and  leaves  it  white ; 
She  sings  of  life,  and  mirth,  and  all  that  moves 
Man's  fancy  in  the  carnival  of  loves  ; 
And  a  chill  shiver  takes  me  as  she  sings 
The  pity  of  unpitied  human  things. 

ARTHUR  SYMONS. 

PARISIANS  AT  TABLE 
In  my  eyes  nothing  is  more  edifying  than  to  see  these 
toilers  set  off  on  Sundays,  with  their  wives  and  chil- 
dren, for  Meudon,  Bellevue,  Asnieres,  or  other  pretty 
environs  of  Paris,  to  breathe  the  fresh  air  in  the  woods 
or  by  the  river.  Here  there  are  restaurants  in  plenty. 
Those  who  can  afford  it  patronize  their  tables  ;  and  at 
every  turn  you  see  a  merry  company  sitting  under 
the  shade  of  some  tree,  enjoying  the  contents  of  a 
basket    brought    from    home    for    economy's    sake. 


SOME  PARISIAN  PHASES  119 

The  day  passes  gaily,  and  there  are  plenty  of  summer- 
houses  to  shelter  from  dew  or  cold.  Here,  with  the  aid 
of  a  bottle  of  inexpensive  native  wine,  these  happy 
folk  awaken  the  Gallic  fun  that  sleeps  under  the  vest 
of  the  humblest  Frenchman.  No  riot,  no  rowdyism, 
no  drunkenness  to  be  seen.  Everybody  has  spent  a 
happy  day  in  the  open  air,  and  laid  in  good  provision 
of  health  and  spirits  for  the  coming  six  days  of  un- 
interrupted work.  Not  only  the  human  members  of 
the  familycircle  have  benefited  either.  The  familypets 
are  often  of  the  party,  and  I  rememlicr  even  to  have 
seen  a  canary  forming  one  of  a  happy  group  on  the 
grass  at  the  Vincenncs  Wood.  '  Poor  little  thing,'  said 
the  bright-eyed  girl  who  had  brought  her  caged 
warbler  from  its  home  in  a  fifth-floor  flat,  '  it  would 
have  been  so  sad  all  day  without  us  !' 

For  the  upper  and  well-to-do  classes  there  are  in 
Paris  a  few  dozen  restaurants,  perfect  temples  of  Epi- 
curus. Now  see  the  faithful  at  work.  They  will  tell 
you  that  animals  feed,  man  eats.  '  But,'  they  will  add, 
'  the  man  of  intellect  alone  knows  how  to  eat.' 

A  little  walk  is  taken  first,  to  get  up  the  appetite. 
Some  will  have  their  glass  of  absinthe  or  vermouth, 
and  will  tell  you  with  the  most  serious  air  in  the 
world  that  without  it  their  appetite  would  never  come. 
Punctual  as  the  clock,  when  their  dinner-hour  arrives, 
behold  them  turn  into  Bignon's,  the  Maison-Doree,  or 
some  other  well-known  house,  and  take  their  seat 
with  the  solemnitj'  of  an  Academician  who  is  going  to 
take  part  in  the  ofl^icial  reception  of  a  newly-elected 
member  of  the  celebrated  Academy  !  The  waiter  pre- 
sents the  bill  of  fare,  and  discreetly  retires.  He  knows 
that  the  study  of  the  menu  is  a  momentous  affair,  and 
that  ces  messieurs  are  not  going  to  lightly  choose  their 


120  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

dishes.  They  must  have  ample  time  for  reflection. 
He  leaves  them  in  sweet  meditation,  savoring  in 
advance  the  long  list  of  dainties  for  the  day.  This 
preliminary  is  one  of  the  pleasaatest  features  of  the 
performance,  something  akin  to  the  packing  up  for  a 
holiday  trip.  Each  article  on  the  bill  of  fare  is  dis- 
cussed with  endless  commentaries,  accompanied  with 
knowing  glance  or  smack  of  the  tongue. 

By-and-by  the  choice  is  made.  .  ,  .  The  wine  ques- 
tion is  very  soon  settled.  The  Frenchman  is  familiar 
with  the  names  of  all  his  favourite  friends.  Beaune, 
Leoville,  Chateau  Lafitte,  Chateau  Margaux  will  help 
the  chosen  menu  to  go  down.  He  will  sometimes  order 
a  bottle  of  Rhenish  wine,  but  not  without  previously 
satisfying  his  patriotism  by  adding,  '  These  rascally 
Prussians,  what  beautifully  coloured  wines  they 
grow  !'  Two  hours,  at  least,  are  spent  at  table,  for  the 
whole  time  of  the  meal  conversation  goes  on  unflag- 
ging. When  dinner  is  over,  our  friends  repair  to  Tor- 
toni,  the  Cafe  Riche,  or  the  Cafe  Napolitain,  and  there 
sip  a  cup  of  fragrant  coffee  while  quietly  enjoying  a 
cigar  ;  after  which,  not  unfrequently,  a  tiny  glass  of 
fine  champagne  or  chartreuse  is  brought  in  requisition 
'  to  push  down  the  coffee.'  Then  they  rise,  and  arm  in 
arm,  smiling,  gesticulating,  they  stroll  on  the  Boule- 
vards or  the  Champs  Elysees,  delighted  with  the  world 
at  large  and  with  themselves  in  particular. 

MAX  o'rell. 

THE  CAFfi 

Gentlefolks,  pray,  v/hat  must  be 
In  this  world  a  bachelor's  lot, 

Who,  hke  me,  no  family. 

Fortune,  place,  or  wife  has  got  ? 


SOME  PARISIAN  PHASES  121 

Through  the  squares  to  stray,  no  doubt, 
On  the  quays  to  roam  about. 
Pardon  me — by  such  a  trade 
None  but  shoeblacks  rich  are  made. 

Now  upon  a  plan  I've  hit 

Which  far  better  suits  my  taste, 

Asks  not  too  much  time  or  wit, 
And  prevents  all  sorts  of  waste. 

Hospitable  roofs  abound 

On  the  Boulevards,  where  are  found 

Folks  who  nothing  have  to  do. 

Folks  who  take  their  leisure  too. 

There,  when  weary,  I  obtain 

Sometimes  pastime,  sometimes  sleep  ; 
Me  they  shelter  from  the  rain. 

Me  from  sunbeams  safely  keep. 
Ah  !  I  fancy  you  have  guessed 
What  must  be  those  regions  blest. 
Well,  for  thirty  years  have  I — 
Through  all  weathers,  wet  and  dry — 

Just  at  seven  left  my  bed, 

On  my  sixth  floor  every  day, 
Washed  and  shaved  and  curled  my  head. 

And  dropped  down  to  the  Cafe. 
There  the  waiter  in  a  trice 
Brings  of  bread  a  wholesome  slice, 
Which  I  think  a  breakfast  rare, 
With  a  glass  of  capillaire. 

Being  the  first-comer — then. 

Early  reading  to  ensure, 
I  snatch  up  the  Quotidienne, 

And  the  Courier  I  secure. 


122  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

With  the  Globe  beneath  an  arm, 
With  the  other  keeping  warm 
The  D chats,  I'm  on  the  watch 
Soon  the  Moniteur  to  catch. 

Hunting  meanwhile  the  Pilote, 

Which,  though  gouty,  I  obtain  ; 
Busy  with  my  hmping  foot 
The  Diable  Bciteiix  I  gain. 
'  Hollo  !  neighbour,  quid  novi  ?' 
Thus  I  hear  a  Picard  cry. 
Who  is  mighty  pleased  to  show 
Latin  in  his  parts  they  know.  .  ,  , 

Dinner-time  its  warning  gives, — 
All  the  mandate  must  obey  ; 

E'en  the  hottest  wrangler  leaves 
The  dispute  and  the  Cafe. 

I've  just  eaten  something— so 

I  am  not  obliged  to  go  ; 

I  can  wait,  and  here,  meanwhile, 

Read  at  leisure  the  Etoile. 

Twill  be  long  though,  I  suppose. 

Ere  it  comes  :  v/hat  can  I  do  ? 
Fidget  with  the  dominoes. 

Having  read  the  papers  through. 
Here  the  Etoile  comes — oh,  joy  ! 
First  to  read  the  news  am  I, 
With  my  glasses  on  my  nose, — 
With  an  air  that  must  impose, 

Information  do  I  draw 
Of  whate'er  occurred  to-day 

At  the  Bourse  or  courts  of  law  ; 
Likewise  know  to-morrow's  play. 


SOME  PARISIAN  PHASES  123 

All  at  once  a  noise  I  hear, — 
Now  the  diners  reappear  ; 
While  the  new-lit  gas  is  gleaming, 
In  they  come  with  faces  beaming. 

Various  things  they  chat  about. 
On  the  seats  their  bodies  throw ; 

Waiters  pour  their  coffee  out ; 
I  approach  incognito. 

Near  a  banker  now  I  sit, — 

Choose  my  station  near  a  wit, — 

Brokers  now  my  neighbours  make, — 

Every  sort  of  hue  I  take. 

Not  one  customer  in  all 

Could,  I'm  sure,  with  me  compete, 
If  for  coffee  I  would  call 

Often  as  I  change  my  seat. 
'Tis  eleven  :  from  the  play 
Guests  pour  into  the  Cafe, 
Twenty,  thirty,  I  dare  say. 
Who  with  heat  all  melt  away. 

Politics  of  the  coulisse 

Like  habitues  they  handle  ; 
Censure  actors  and  the  piece  ; 

Of  the  actresses  tell  scandal. 
Now  the  counter's  awful  queen 
Gliding  off  to  rest  is  seen. 
And  her  movement,  as  'tis  late, 
Everyone  should  imitate. 

The  Caf6  is  cleared  at  last ; 

I,  the  first  who  entered  it, 
In  my  principle  am  fast, 

And  I  am  the  last  to  quit. 


124  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

Sometimes  while  I'm  on  the  watch 
Interesting  facts  to  catch, 
I'm  o'erpowered  by  slumber  soft, — 
'Tis  a  lucky  chance  ;  for  oft 
While  asleep  they  lock  me  in ; 

So  all  ready  I  remain, 
On  the  morrow  to  begin 

My  old  favourite  game  again. 

M.   DESAUGIERS. 

SOME  FAMOUS  CAFES  OF  PARIS 
Not  only  does  cookery  advance  and  vary  upon  the 
same  principle,  but  its  professors  are  subject  to 
changes  from  which  the  professors  of  other  sciences 
are  happily  exempt.  The  fame  of  a  restaurateur  is 
always,  in  some  sort,  dependent  upon  fashion, — for  a 
plat's  prosperity  lies  in  the  mouth  of  him  who  eats  it  ; 
and  the  merit  of  a  restaurateur  is  always  in  some  sort 
dependent  upon  his  fame. 

The  Rocher  de  Cancale  first  grew  into  reputation 
by  its  oysters,  which  about  the  year  1804,  M.  Balaine, 
the  founder  of  the  establishment,  contrived  the  means 
of  bringing  to  Paris  fresh  and  in  the  best  possible 
order  at  all  seasons  alike,  thus  giving  a  direct  prac- 
tical refutation  of  the  prejudice,  that  oysters  are  good 
in  those  months  only  which  include  the  canine  letter. 
He  next  applied  himself  with  equal  and  well-merited 
success  to  fish  and  game,  and  at  length  taking  courage 
to  generalize  his  exertions,  he  aspired  to  and  attained 
the  eminence  which  the  Rocher  has  ever  since  en- 
joyed without  dispute.  His  fulness  of  reputation 
dates  from  November  28th,  1809,  when  he  served  a 
dinner  of  twenty-four  covers  in  a  style  which  made 
it  the  sole  topic  of  conversation  to  gastronomic  Paris 


SOME  PARISIAN  PHASES  125 

for  a  month.  To  dine,  indeed,  in  perfection  at  the 
Rocher,  the  student  should  order  a  dinner  of  ten 
covers,  a  week  or  ten  days  beforehand,  at  not  less 
than  forty  francs  a  head,  exclusive  of  wine  ;  nor  is 
this  price  by  any  means  excessive,  for  three  or  four 
louis  a  head  were  ordinarily  given  at  Tailleur's.  If 
you  have  not  been  able  to  make  a  party,  or  are  com- 
pelled to  improvise  a  dinner,  you  had  better  ask  the 
gar^on  to  specify  the  luxuries  of  the  day,  provided 
always  you  can  converse  with  him  with  connoissance 
de  cause,  for  otherwise  he  will  hardly  condescend  to 
communicativeness.  When  he  does  condescend,  it  is 
really  delightful  to  witness  the  quiet  self-possessed 
manner,  the  con  amore  intelligent  air,  with  which  he 
dictates  his  instructions,  invariably  concluding  with 
the  same  phrase,  uttered  in  an  exulting  self-gratu- 
latory  tone — '  Bien,  Monsieur,  vous  avez-la  un  excel- 
lent diner  !'  Never,  too,  shall  we  forget  the  dignity 
with  which  he  once  corrected  a  blunder  made  in  our 
menu  by  a  tyro  of  the  party,  who  had  interpolated  a 
salmi  between  the  pofage  a  la  bisque  and  the  turhot  d 
la  crane  et  an  gratin.  '  Messieurs,'  said  he  as  he 
brought  in  the  turbot  according  to  the  pre-ordained 
order  of  things,  '  le  poisson  est  naiurellement  le  relev6 
du  potage.'  Another  instance  of  the  zeal  with  which 
the  whole  establishment  seems  instinct :  A  report  had 
got  al)out  that  the  celebrated  chef  was  dead,  and  a 
scientific  friend  of  ours  took  the  liberty  to  mention 
it  to  the  gar(-on,  avowing  at  the  same  time  his  own 
total  incredulity.  He  left  the  room  without  a  word, 
but  within  five  minutes  he  hurriedly  threw  open  the 
door,  exclaiming,  '  Messieurs,  il  vient  se  montrer  '; 
and  sure  enough  the  great  artist  in  his  own  proper 
person  presented  himself. 


126  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

We  shall  rim  counter  to  a  great  many  judgments, 
by  taking  Grignon's  next.  .  .  .  The  time  has  been 
when  Grignon's  was  the  most  popular  house  in  Paris, 
though  it  must  be  owned,  we  fear,  that  its  popularity 
was  in  some  sort  owing  to  an  attraction  a  little  alien 
from  the  proper  purpose  of  a  restaurant :  two  damsels 
of  surpassing  beauty  presided  at  the  comptoir.  But  it 
had  and  has  other  merits,  of  a  kind  that  will  be  most 
particularly  appreciated  by  an  Englishman.  All  the 
simple  dishes  are  exquisite,  and  the  fish  (the  rarest  of 
all  things  at  Paris)  is  really  fresh.  .  .  .  Grignon's 
sherry  (sherry  being  only  taken  as  a  vin  de  liqueur  in 
France)  will  probably  last  our  time,  and  we  therefore 
do  not  hesitate  to  say  that  it  is  excellent.  Another 
delicacy  peculiar  to  the  place,  is  hritsauce  (not  sauce 
de  pain),  which,  though  no  doubt  imitated  from  the 
English  composition,  will  be  found  to  bear  no  greater 
resemblance  than  one  of  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence's  por- 
traits of  an  old  woman  to  the  original ;  all  the  harsher 
points  being  mellowed  down,  and  an  indescribable 
shading  of  seductive  softness  infused. 

The  early  fame  of  the  Verys  was  gained  by  their 
judicious  application  of  the  truffe.  Their  entrees 
truffees  were  universally  allowed  to  be  inimitable 
from  the  first,  and  they  gradually  extended  their 
reputation,  till  it  embraced  the  whole  known  world 
of  cookery.  So  long  as  the  establishment  on  the 
Tuileries  was  left  standing,  the  name  of  Very  retained 
its  talismanic  power  of  attraction,  the  delight  and 
pride  of  gastronomy.  But  when  the  house  in  ques- 
tion was  removed  to  make  way  for  the  public  build- 
ings which  now  rest  upon  its  site,  the  presiding  genius 
of  the  family  deserted  it,  and  we  seek  in  vain  in  their 
establishment  in  the  Palais  Royal,  the  charm  which 


SOME  PARISIAN  PHASES  127 

hung  about  its  predecessor  of  the  Tuilcries.  Death, 
too,  had  intervened,  and  carried  off  the  most  distin- 
guished of  the  brotliers.  A  magnificent  monument 
has  been  erected  to  his  memory  in  Pcre  Lachaise,  with 
an  inscription  concluding  thus  :  '  Toute  sa  vie  fut 
consacree  aux  arts  utiles,' 

The  Cafe  de  Paris  is  a  delightful  place  to  dine  in 
during  fine  weather,  by  daylight ;  the  rooms  are  the 
most  splendid  in  Paris  ;  the  tables  are  almost  always 
full ;  so  we  need  hardly  add  that  it  is  completely  a  la 
mode. 

If  you  pass  in  front  of  Perigord's,  a  few  doors  from 
Very's,  in  the  Palais  Royal,  about  seven,  you  will  see 
a  succession  of  small  tables,  occupied  each  by  a  single 
gastronome  eating  with  all  the  gravity  and  precision 
becoming  one  of  the  most  arduous  duties  of  life — an 
unequivocal  symptom  of  a  cuisine  rechcrchee. 

The  Cafe  Anglais,  on  the  Italian  Boulevards,  [is]  the 
nearest  good  house  to  the  Varietes,  Gymnase,  and 
Porte  St.  Martin  ;  our  own  attention  was  first  at- 
tracted to  it  by  seeing  a  party,  of  which  M.  Thiers 
was  the  centre,  in  the  constant  habit  of  dining  there. 
Now,  M.  Thiers  is  an  hereditary  judge  of  such 
matters  ;  at  least,  he  was  once  described  to  us  by 
another  member  of  Louis  Philippe's  Cabinet,  as  '  le 
fils  aine  d'une  tres-maitvaise  cuisiniere,'  and  we  are 
wilhng  to  reject  the  invidious  part  of  the  description 
as  a  pleasantry  or  a  bit  of  malice  most  pecuharly  and 
particularly  French. 

Les  Trois  Freres  Proven^aux  gained  their  fame  by 
brandales  de  mcrhtche,  moriie  a  I'ail,  and  Proven9al 
ragouts,  but  the  best  thing  now  to  be  tasted  there  is  a 
vol-au-vent. 

Hardy  and  Richc  have  been  condemned  to  a  very 


128  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

critical  kind  of  notoriety  by  a  pun — '  Pour  diner  chez 
Hardy,  il  faut  etre  riche  ;  et  pour  diner  chez  Riche,  il 
faut  etre  hardi.' 

Tortoni,  however,  the  Gunter  of  Paris,  is  the 
favourite  for  a  dejeuner ;  and  parfait-amour  is  obso- 
lete. Claret  for  boys,  port  for  men,  and  brandy  for 
heroes,  was  the  decision  of  Johnson,  and  there  can 
be  no  doubt  that  brandy  is  your  true  chasse  for  the 
heroes  of  gastronomy.  If  tempted  to  indulge  in  a 
liqueur,  they  generally  confine  themselves  to  curagoa. 
Even  with  ladies,  parfait-amour,  notwithstanding  the 
attraction  of  its  name,  is  no  longer  in  repute  ;  they 
have  adopted  Maraschino  in  its  place,  and  sip  it  with 
such  evident  symptoms  of  enjoyment,  that  once  upon 
a  time,  when  a  certain  eminent  diplomatist  was  asked 
by  his  voisine,  at  a  petit-sotiper,  for  a  toast,  to  parallel 
with  '  Women  and  Wine,'  his  excellency  ventured  to 
suggest  '  Men  and  Maraschino,'  and  the  suggestion 
received  the  compliment  of  very  general  applause. 

T/ie  Quarterly  Review. 

RESTAURANT  AND  RESTAURATEUR 

Mr.  Bob  Fudge  writes  to  his  Friend  Richard ,  Esq. 

Paris. 
Oh,  Dick  !  you  may  talk  of  your  writing  and  reading. 
Your  Logic  and  Greek,  but  there's  nothing  like  feed- 
ing ; 
And  this  is  the  place  for  it,  Dicky,  you  dog, 
Of  all  places  on  earth — the  headquarters  of  Prog  ! 
Talk  of  England — her  famed  Magna  Charta,  I  swear, 

is 
A  humbug,  a  flam,  to  the  Carte  at  old  Very's  ; 
And  as  for  your  Juries — who  would  not  set  o'er  'em 
A  Jury  of  Tasters,  with  woodcocks  before  'em  ? 


SOME  PARISIAN  PHASES  129 

Give  Cartwright  his  Parliaments,  fresh  every  year — 
But  those  friends  of  short  Commons  would  never  do 

here  ; 
And,  let  Romilly  speak  as  he  will  on  the  question, 
No  Digest  of  Law's  like  the  laws  of  digestion  !  .  .  . 

Dick,  Dick,  what  a  place  is  this  Paris  ! — but  stay — 
As  my  raptures  may  bore  you,  I'll  just  sketch  a  Day, 
As  we  pass  it,  myself  and  some  comrades  I've  got. 
All  thorough-bred  Gnostics,  who  know  what  is  what. 

After  dreaming  some  hours  of  the  land  of  Cocaigne, 

That  Elysium  of  all  that  is  friand  and  nice, 
WTiere  for  hail  they  have  bon-bons,  and  claret  for  rain, 

And  the  skaters  in  winter  show  off  on  cream-ice  ; 
Where  so  ready  all  nature  its  cookery  ^aclds, 
Macaroni  an  farmesan  grows  in  the  fields  ; 
Little  birds  fly  about  with  the  true  pheasant  taint, 
And  the  geese  are  all  born  with  a  liver  complaint  ! 
I  rise — put  on  neck-cloth — stiff,  tight,  as  can  be — • 
For  a  lad  who  goes  into  the  ivorld,  Dick,  like  me, 
Should  have  his  neck  tied  up,  you  know — there's  no 

doubt  of  it — 
Almost  as  tight  as  some  lads  who  go  out  of  it. 
With  wliiskers  well  oiled,  and  with  boots  that '  hold  up 
The  mirror  to  nature  ' — so  bright  you  could  sup 
Off  the  leather  like  china  ;  with  coat,  too,  that  draws 
On  the  tailor,  who  suffers,  a  martyr's  applause  ! — 
With  head  bridled  up,  like  a  four-in-hand  leader, 
And  stays — devil's  in  them — too  tight  for  a  feeder, 
I  strut  to  the  old  Cafe  Hardy,  which  yet 
Beats  the  field  at  a  dejeuner  d  la  fourchctle. 
There,  Dick,  what  a  breakfast  ! — oh,  not  like  your 

ghost 
Of  a  breakfast  in  England,  your  curst  tea  and  toast  ; 

9 


130  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

But  a  side-board,  you  dog,  where  one's  eye  roves 

about. 
Like  a  Turk's  in  the  Haram,  and  thence  singles  out 
One's  pate  of  larks,  just  to  tune  up  the  throat. 
One's  small  limbs  of  chickens,  done  en  papillote, 
One's  erudite  cutlets,  drest  all  wa37S  but  plain, 
Or  one's  kidneys — imagine,  Dick — done  with  cham- 
pagne ! 
Then,  some  glasses  of  Beaune,  to  dilute — or,  mayhap, 
Chambertin,  which  you  know's  the  pet  tipple  of  Nap, 
And  which  Dad,  by-the-by,  that  legitimate  stickler, 
Much  scruples  to  taste,  but  7'm  not  so  partic'lar. — 
Your  coffee  comes  next,  by  prescription  ;  and  then, 

Dick,  's 
The  coffee's  ne'er-failing  and  glorious  appendix, 
(If  books  had  but  such,  my  old  Grecian,  depend  on't, 
I'd  swallow  even  W — tk — ns',  for  sake  of  the  end 

on't)  ; 
A  neat  glass  of  par f ait-amour,  which  one  sips 
Just  as  if  bottled  velvet  tipped  over  one's  lips  ! 

This  repast  being  ended,  and  paid  for — (how  odd  ! 
Till  a  man's  used  to  paying,  there's  something  so 

queer  in't  !) — 
The  sun  now  well  out,  and  the  girls  all  abroad. 
And  the  world  enough  aired  for  us.  Nobs,  to  appear 

in't. 
We  lounge  up  the  Boulevards,  where — oh,  Dick,  the 

phyzzes. 
The  turn-outs,  we  meet — what  a  nation  of  quizzes  ! 
Here  toddles  along  some  old  figure  of  fun. 
With  a  coat  you  might  date  Anno  Domini  i ; 
A  laced  hat,  worsted  stockings,  and — noble  old  soul ! 
A  fine  ribbon  and  cross  in  his  best  button-hole  ; 


SOME  PARISIAN  PHASES  131 

Just  such  as  our  Pr e,  who  nor  reason  nor  fun 

dreads, 
Inflicts,  without  even  a  court-martial,  on  hundreds. 
Here  trips  a  grisette,  with  a  fond,  roguish  eye, 
(Rather  eatable  things  these  gnseltes  by-the-by)  ; 
And  there  an  old  demoiselle,  almost  as  fond. 
In    a    silk    that    has    stood    since    the    time    of   the 

Fronde.  .  .  . 

From  the  Boulevards — but  hearken  ! — yes — as  I'm  a 

sinner. 
The  clock  is  just  striking  the  half-hour  to  dinner  : 
So  no  more  at  present — short  time  for  adorning — 
My  Day  must  be  finished  some  other  fine  morning. 
Now,  hey  for  old  Bcauvilliers'  larder,  my  boy  ! 
And,  once  there,  if  the  Goddess  of  Beauty  and  Joy 
Were  to  write  '  Come  and  kiss  me,  dear  Bob  !'  I'd  not 

budge — 
Not  a  step,  Dick,  as  sure  as  my  name  is  R.  Fudge. 

THOMAS  MOORE. 


A  PLEASURE-TRIP  TO  SAINT  CLOUD 

It  is  hard  nowadays  to  picture  to  one's  self  what  a 
pleasure-trip  of  students  and  grisettes  was  like,  forty- 
five  years  ago.  The  suburbs  of  Paris  are  no  longer  the 
same  ;  the  physiognomy  of  what  may  be  called  circum- 
Parisian  life  has  changed  completely  in  the  last  half- 
century  ;  where  there  was  the  cuckoo,  there  is  the 
railway-car  ;  where  there  was  a  tender-boat,  there  is 
now  the  steamboat  ;  people  speak  of  Fecamp  nowa- 
days as  they  spoke  of  Saint  Cloud  in  those  days.  The 
Paris  of  1862  is  a  city  which  has  France  for  its  out- 
skirts, 

9—2 


132  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

Four  couples  conscientiously  went  through  with  all 
the  country  follies  possible  at  that  time.  The  vaca- 
tion was  beginning,  and  it  was  a  warm,  bright  summer 
day.  On  the  preceding  day,  Favourite,  the  only  one 
who  knew  how  to  write,  had  written  the  following  to 
Tholomyes  in  the  name  of  the  four  :  *  It  is  a  good 
hour  to  emerge  from  happiness.'  That  is  why  they 
rose  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Then  they  went 
to  Saint  Cloud  by  the  coach,  looked  at  the  dry  cascade 
and  exclaimed,  '  This  must  be  very  beautiful  when 
there  is  water  !'  They  breakfasted  at  the  Tete-Noire  ; 
.  .  .  they  treated  themselves  to  a  game  of  ring- 
throwing  under  the  quincunx  of  trees  of  the  grand 
fountain ;  they  ascended  Diogenes'  lantern,  they 
gambled  for  macaroons  at  the  roulette  establishment 
of  the  Pont  de  Sevres,  picked  bouquets  at  Puteaux, 
bought  reed-pipes  at  Neuilly,  ate  apple-tarts  every- 
where, and  were  perfectly  happy.  .  .  . 

All  four  grisettes  were  madly  pretty.  A  good  old 
classic  poet,  then  famous,  a  good  fellow  who  had  an 
;^leonore,  M,  le  Chevalier  de  Labouisse,  as  he  strolled 
that  day  beneath  the  chestnut-trees  of  Saint  Cloud, 
saw  them  pass  about  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and 
exclaimed,  '  There  is  one  too  many  of  them,'  as  he 
thought  of  the  Graces.  Favourite,  Blanche velle's 
friend,  .  .  .  ran  on  in  front  under  the  great  green 
boughs,  jumped  the  ditches,  and  presided  over  this 
merry-making  with  the  spirit  of  a  young  female  faun. 
Zephine  and  Dahlia,  whom  chance  had  made  beautiful 
in  such  a  way  that  they  set  each  off  when  they  were 
together,  and  completed  each  other,  never  left  each 
other,  more  from  an  instinct  of  coquetry  than  from 
friendship,  and,  clinging  to  each  other,  they  assumed 
English  poses.  ...  As  for  Fantine,  she  was  a  joy  to 


??  5: 


'I  F.KKACFS    M     SAINT    (.I.Oll' 


SOME  PARISIAN  PHASES  133 

behold.  Her  splendid  teeth  had  evidently  received  an 
ofBce  from  God, — laughter.  She  preferred  to  carry 
her  little  hat  of  sewed  straw,  with  its  long  white 
strings,  in  her  hand  rather  than  on  her  head.  Her 
thick  blonde  hair,  which  was  inclined  to  wave  and 
which  easily  uncoiled,  and  which  it  was  necessary  to 
fasten  up  incessantly,  seemed  made  for  the  flight  of 
Galatea  under  the  willows.  Her  rosy  lips  babbled 
enchantingly.  The  corners  of  her  mouth,  voluptuously 
turned  up,  as  in  the  antique  masks  of  Erigone,  had  an 
air  of  encouraging  the  audacious ;  but  her  long, 
shadowy  lashes  drooped  discreetly  over  the  jollity  of 
the  lower  part  of  the  face  as  though  to  call  a  halt.  .  .  , 
Fantine  was  beautiful,  without  being  too  conscious 
of  it.  Those  rare  dreamers,  mysterious  priests  of  the 
beautiful  who  silently  confront  everything  with  per- 
fection, would  have  caught  a  glimpse  in  this  little 
working-woman,  through  the  transparency  of  her 
Parisian  grace,  of  the  ancient  sacred  euphony.  This 
daughter  of  the  shadows  was  thorough-bred.  She  was 
beautiful  in  the  two  ways — style  and  rhj^thm.  Style 
is  the  form  of  the  ideal  ;  rhythm  is  its  movement.  .  .  . 

That  day  was  comj'josed  of  dawn,  from  one  end  to 
the  other.  All  nature  seemed  to  be  having  a  holiday, 
and  to  be  laughing.  The  flower-beds  of  Saint  Cloud 
perfumed  the  air  ;  the  breath  of  the  Seine  rustled  the 
leaves  vaguely  ;  the  branches  gesticulated  in  the  wind, 
bees  pillaged  the  jasmines  ;  a  whole  Bohemia  of  butter- 
flies swooped  down  upon  the  yarrow,  the  clover,  and 
the  oats  ;  in  the  august  park  of  the  King  of  France 
there  was  a  pack  of  vagabonds,  the  birds.  The  four 
merry  couples,  mingled  with  the  sun,  the  fields,  the 
flowers,  the  trees,  were  resj^lendent.  .  .  . 

Such  things  are  joys.     These  passages  of  happy 


134  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

couples  are  a  profound  appeal  to  life  and  nature,  and 
make  a  caress  and  light  spring  forth  from  everything. 
There  was  once  a  fairy  who  created  the  fields  and 
forests  expressly  for  those  in  love, — in  that  eternal 
hedge-school  of  lovers,  which  is  for  ever  beginning 
anew,  and  which  will  last  as  long  as  there  are  hedges 
and  scholars.  Hence  the  popularity  of  spring  among 
thinkers.  The  patrician  and  the  knife-grinder,  the 
duke  and  the  peer,  the  limb  of  the  law,  the  courtiers 
and  townspeople,  as  they  used  to  say  in  olden  times, 
all  are  subjects  of  this  fairy.  They  laugh  and  hunt, 
and  there  is  in  the  air  the  brilliance  of  an  apotheosis 
— what  a  transfiguration  effected  by  love  !  Notaries' 
clerks  are  gods.  .  .  . 

After  breakfast  the  four  couples  went  to  what  was 
then  called  the  King's  Square  to  see  a  newly  arrived 
plant  from  India,  whose  nam.e  escapes  the  memory 
at  this  moment,  and  which,  at  that  epoch,  was 
attracting  all  Paris  to  Saint  Cloud.  .  ,  .  There  was  a 
fresh  delight :  they  crossed  the  Seine  in  a  boat,  and 
proceeding  from  Passy  on  foot  they  reached  the 
barrier  of  I'Etoile.  They  had  been  up  since  five 
o'clock  that  morning  .  .  .  but  hah !  there  is  no  such 
thing  as  fatigue  on  Sunday,  said  Favourite  ;  on  Sunday 
fatigue  does  not  work.  victor  hugo 

BARTY  JOSSELIN  IS  INTRODUCED 

'  De  Paris  k  Versailles,  lou,  la, 
De  Paris  a  Versailles — 
II  y  a  de  belles  allees, 

Vive  le  Roi  de  France  ! 
II  y  a  de  belles  allees, 
Vivent  les  ecoliers  !' 

One  sultry  Saturday  afternoon  in  the  summer  of 
1847,  I  sat  at  my  desk  in  the  junior  school-room,  or 


SOME  PARISIAN  PHASES  135 

salle  d' etudes  des  pciits,  of  the  Institution  F.  Brossard, 
Rond-point  de  I'Avenue  de  St. -Cloud  ;  or,  as  it  is 
called  now,  Avenue  du  Bois  de  Boulogne — or,  as  it  was 
called  during  the  Second  Empire,  A\'enue  du  Prince 
Imperial,  or  else  de  I'lmpcratrice  ;   I'm  not  sure. 

There  is  not  much  stability  in  such  French  names, 
I  fancy  ;  but  their  sound  is  charming,  and  always 
gives  me  the  nostalgia  of  Paris — Royal  Paris,  Im- 
perial Paris,  Republican  Paris  !  .  .  .  whatever  they 
may  call  it  ten  or  twelve  years  hence.  Paris  is  always 
Paris,  and  always  will  be,  in  spite  of  the  immortal 
Haussmann,  both  for  those  who  love  it  and  for  those 
who  don't. 

All  the  four  windows  were  open — two  of  them, 
freely  and  frankly,  on  to  the  now-deserted  play- 
ground, admitting  the  fragrance  of  lime  and  syringa 
and  lilac,  and  other  odours  of  a  mixed  quality. 

Two  other  vv'indows,  defended  by  an  elaborate  net- 
work of  iron  wire  and  a  formidable  array  of  spiked 
iron  rails  beyond,  opened  on  to  the  Rond-point,  or 
meeting  of  the  cross-roads — one  of  which  led  north- 
east to  Paris  through  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  ;  the  other 
three  through  woods  and  fields  and  country  lanes  to 
such  quarters  of  the  globe  as  still  remain.  The  world 
is  wide.  .  .  . 

Monsieur  Bonzig — or  '  Ic  grand  Bonzig,'  as  he  was 
called  behind  his  back — sat  at  his  table  on  the  estrade, 
correcting  the  exercises  of  the  eighth  class  (huitieme), 
which  he  coached  in  Latin  and  French.  It  was  the 
lowest  class  in  the  school ;  yet  one  learnt  much  in  it 
that  was  of  consequence.  ,  .  .  He  (Monsieur  Bonzig) 
seemed  hot  and  weary,  as  well  he  might,  and  sighed, 
and  looked  up  every  now  and  then  to  mop  his  brow 
and  think.    And  as  he  gazed  into  the  green  and  azure 


136  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

depths  beyond  the  north  window,  his  dark-brown 
eyes  quivered  and  vibrated  from  side  to  side  through 
his  spectacles  with  a  queer  quick  tremolo,  such  as  I 
have  never  seen  in  any  eyes  but  his. 

About  five-and-twenty  boys  sat  at  their  desks  ; 
boys  of  all  ages  between  seven  and  fourteen — many 
with  closely  cropped  hair,  '  a  la  malcontent,'  like  nice 
little  innocent  convicts  ;  and  nearly  all  in  blouses, 
mostly  blue  ;  some  with  their  garments  loosely  flow- 
ing ;  others  confined  at  the  waist  by  a  tricoloured 
ceinture  de  gymnastique.  ...  As  for  the  boys  them- 
selves, some  were  energetic  and  industrious — some 
listless  and  lazy  and  lolling,  and  quite  languid  with 
the  heat — some  fidgety  and  restless,  on  the  lookout 
for  excitement :  a  cab  or  carriage  raising  the  dust  on 
its  way  to  the  Bois — a  water-cart  laying  it  (there 
were  no  hydrants  then)  ;  a  courier  bearing  royal 
despatches,  or  a  mounted  orderly  ;  the  Passy  omnibus, 
to  or  fro  every  ten  minutes  ;  the  marchand  de  coco 
with  his  bell ;  a  regiment  of  the  line  with  its  band  ;  a 
chorus  of  peripatetic  Orpheonistes — a  swallow,  a 
butterfly,  a  bumblebee  ;  a  far-off  balloon,  oh,  joy  ! 
any  sight  or  sound  to  relieve  the  tedium  of  those  two 
mortal  school-hours  that  dragged  their  weary  lengths 
from  half-past  one  till  half-past  three — every  day  but 
Sunday  and  Thursday.  .  .  . 

'  Maurice  !'  said  M.  Bonzig, 

'  Oui,  m'sieur  !'  said  I.     I  will  translate — 

*  You  shall  conjugate  and  copy  out  for  me  forty 
times  the  compound  verb,  "  I  cough  without  necessity 
to  distract  the  attention  of  my  comrade  Rapaud  from 
his  Latin  exercise  !"  ' 

'  Moi,  m'sieur  ?'  I  asked  innocently. 

'Oui,  vous  !' 


SOME  PARISIAN  PHASES  137 

'  Dien,  m'sieur  !' 

Just  then  there  was  a  clatter  by  the  fountain,  the 
shrill  small  pipe  of  D'Aurigny,  the  youngest  boy  in 
the  school,  exclaimed — 

'  H^  !    He  !    Oh  la  la  !    Le  Roi  qui  passe  !' 

And  we  all  jumped  up,  and  stood  on  forms,  and 
craned  our  necks  to  see  Louis  Philij)pe  I.  and  the  Queen 
drive  quickly  by  in  their  big  blue  carriage  and  four, 
with  their  two  blue-and-silverliveriedoutriders  trotting 
in  front,  on  their  way  from  St.  Cloud  to  the  Tuilcries. . . . 

Suddenly  the  door  of  the  school-room  flew  open, 
and  the  tall,  portly  figure  of  Monsieur  Brossard 
appeared,  leading  by  the  wrist  a  very  fair-haired  boy 
of  thirteen  or  so,  dressed  in  an  Eton  jacket,  in  light  blue 
trousers,  with  a  white  chimney-pot  silk  hat,  which 
he  carried  in  his  hand — an  English  boy,  evidently  ;  but 
of  an  aspect  so  singularly  agreeable  one  didn't  need 
to  be  English  one's  self  to  warm  towards  him  at  once. 

'  Monsieur  Bonzig,  and  gentlemen  !'  said  the  head- 
master (in  French,  of  course).  '  Here  is  the  new  boy  ; 
he  calls  himself  Bartholomiou  Josselin.  He  is  English, 
but  he  knows  French  as  well  as  you.  I  hope  you  will 
find  in  him  a  good  comrade,  honourable  and  frank 
and  brave,  and  that  he  will  find  the  same  in  you — 
Maurice  !'  (that  was  me). 

'  Oui,  m'sieur  !' 

'  I  specially  recommend  Josselin  to  you.' 

GEORGE    DU   MAURIER. 

PARIS  :  LE  DIMANCHE 

It  was  Sunday  :  and  when  La  Fleur  came  in,  in  the 
morning,  with  my  coffee  and  roll  and  butter,  he  had 
got  himself  so  gallantly  arrayed  I  scarcely  knew  him. 


138  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

I  had  covenanted  at  Slontreuil  to  give  him  a  new 
hat  with  a  silver  button  and  loop,  and  four  Louis  d'ors 
pour  s'adoniser,  when  we  got  to  Paris  ;  and  the  poor 
fellow,  to  do  him  justice,  had  done  wonders  with  it. 

He  had  bought  a  bright,  clean,  good  scarlet  coat, 
and  a  pair  of  breeches  of  the  same. — ^They  were  not 
a  crown  worse,  he  said,  for  the  wearing. — I  wished 
him  hanged  for  telling  me. — They  looked  so  fresh 
that  though  I  knew  the  thing  could  not  be  done, 
yet  I  would  rather  have  imposed  upon  my  fancy 
with  thinking  I  had  bought  them  new  for  the  fellow 
than  that  they  had  come  out  of  the  Rue  de  Friperie. 

This  is  a  nicety  which  makes  not  the  heart  sore  at 
Paris. 

He  had  purchased,  moreover,  a  handsome  blue 
satin  waistcoat,  fancifully  enough  embroidered ; — • 
this  was  indeed  something  the  worse  for  the  service 
it  had  done,  but  'twas  clean  scoured,  the  gold  had 
been  touched  up,  and,  upon  the  whole,  was  rather 
showy  than  otherwise  ; — and  as  the  blue  was  not 
violent,  it  suited  the  coat  and  breeches  very  well : 
he  had  squeezed  out  of  the  money,  moreover,  a  new 
bag  and  a  solitaire,  and  had  insisted  with  the  fripier 
upon  a  gold  pair  of  garters  to  his  breeches'  knees. — 
He  had  purchased  muslin  ruffles  hien  brodees,  with 
four  livres  of  his  own  money  ;  and  a  pair  of  white  silk 
stockings  for  five  more  ; — and,  to  top  all,  Nature  had 
given  him  a  handsome  figure,  without  costing  him  a 
sou. 

He  entered  the  room  thus  set  off,  with  his  hair 
drest  in  the  first  style,  and  with  a  handsome  bouquet 
in  his  breast.  In  a  word,  there  was  that  look  of  fes- 
tivity in  everything  about  him,  which  at  once  put 
me  in  mind  it  was  Sunday — and,  by  combining  both 


SOME  PARISIAN  PHASES  139 

together,  it  instantly  struck  me  that  the  favour  he 
wished  to  ask  of  me,  the  night  before,  was  to  spend 
the  day  as  everybody  in  Paris  spent  it  besides.  I  had 
scarce  made  the  conjecture,  when  La  Fleur,  with 
infinite  humihty,  but  with  a  look  of  trust,  as  if  I 
should  not  refuse  him,  begged  I  would  grant  him  the 
day,  pour  /aire  le  galant  vis-d-vis  de  sa  mailresse.  .  .  . 

Thou  shalt  go.  La  Fleur,  said  I. 

And  what  Mistress,  La  Fleur,  said  I,  canst  thou 
have  picked  up  in  so  little  a  time  at  Paris  ? — La 
Fleur  laid  his  hand  upon  his  breast,  and  said,  'twas 
a  f  elite  demoiselle,  at  Monsieur  le  Count  de  B****'s. — 
La  Fleur  had  a  heart  made  for  society  ;  and,  to  speak 
the  truth  of  him,  let  as  few  occasions  slip  him  as  his 
master, — so  that,  somehow  or  other, — but  how. 
Heaven  knows, — he  had  connected  himself  with  the 
demoiselle,  upon  the  landing  of  the  staircase,  during 
the  time  I  was  taken  up  v/ith  my  passport ;  and,  as 
there  was  time  enough  for  mc  to  win  the  Count  to 
my  interest,  La  Fleur  had  contrived  to  make  it  do 
to  win  the  maid  to  his.  The  family,  it  seems,  was  to 
be  at  Paris  that  day,  and  he  had  made  a  party  with 
her,  and  two  or  three  more  of  the  Count's  household, 
upon  the  boulevards. 

Happy  people  !  that,  once  a  week  at  least,  are  sure 
to  lay  down  all  your  cares  together,  and  dance  and 
sing,  and  sport  away  the  weights  of  grievance,  which 
bow  down  the  spirit  of  other  nations  to  the  earth. 

LAURENCE   STERNE. 


E.VRLY  MORNING  IN  THE  MARKETS  OF  PARIS 
Carts  were  still  arriving,  and  the  shouts  of  the  wag- 
goners, the  cracking  of  tlieir  whips,  and  the  grinding 


140  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

of  the  paving-stones  beneath  the  iron-bound  wheels 
and  the  horses'  shoes  sounded  with  an  increasing  din. 
The  carts  could  now  only  advance  by  a  series  of  spas- 
modic jolts,  and  stretched  in  a  long  line,  one  behind 
another,  till  they  were  lost  to  sight  in  the  distant 
darkness,  whence  a  confused  roar  ascended. 

Unloading  was  in  progress  all  along  the  Rue  du  Pont 
Neuf,  the  vehicles  being  drawn  up  close  to  the  edge 
of  the  footways,  while  their  teams  stood  motionless 
in  close  order  as  at  a  horse-fair.  .  .  ,  One  enormous 
tumbrel  was  piled  up  with  magnificent  cabbages,  and 
had  only  been  backed  to  the  kerb  with  the  greatest 
difficulty.  Its  load  towered  above  a  lofty  gas-lamp 
whose  bright  light  fell  full  upon  the  broad  leaves, 
which  looked  like  pieces  of  dark  green  velvet,  scal- 
loped and  goffered.  A  young  peasant-girl,  some  six- 
teen years  old,  in  a  blue  linen  jacket  and  cap,  had 
climbed  on  to  the  tumbrel,  where,  buried  in  the  cab- 
bages to  her  shoulders,  she  took  them  one  by  one  and 
threw  them  to  somebody  concealed  in  the  shade 
below.  Every  now  and  then  the  girl  would  slip  and 
vanish,  overwhelmed  by  an  avalanche  of  the  vege- 
tables, but  her  rosy  nose  soon  reappeared  amidst  the 
teeming  greenery,  and  she  broke  into  a  laugh  while 
the  cabbages  again  flew  down.  .  .  . 

The  piles  of  vegetables  on  the  pavement  now  ex- 
tended to  the  verge  of  the  roadway.  Between  the 
heaps,  the  market-gardeners  left  narrow  paths  to 
enable  people  to  pass  along.  The  whole  of  the  wide 
footway  was  covered  from  end  to  end  with  dark 
mounds.  As  yet,  in  the  sudden  dancing  gleams  of 
light  from  the  lanterns,  you  only  just  espied  the 
luxuriant  fulness  of  the  bundles  of  artichokes,  the 
delicate  green  of  the  lettuces,  the  rosy  coral  of  the 


SOME  PARISIAN  PHASES  141 

carrots,  and  dull  ivory  of  the  turnips.  And  these 
gleams  of  rich  colour  flitted  along  the  heaps,  accord- 
ing as  the  lanterns  came  and  went.  The  footway  was 
now  becoming  populated  :  a  crowd  of  people  had 
awakened,  and  was  moving  hither  and  thither  amidst 
the  vegetables,  stopping  at  times,  and  chattering  and 
shouting.  In  the  distance  a  loud  voice  could  be  heard 
crying,  '  Endive  !  who's  got  endive  ?'  The  gates  of 
the  pavilion  devoted  to  the  sale  of  ordinary  vege- 
tables had  just  been  opened  ;  and  the  retail  dealers 
who  had  stalls  there,  with  white  caps  on  their  heads, 
fichus  knotted  over  their  black  jackets,  and  skirts 
pinned  up  to  keep  them  from  getting  soiled,  now 
began  to  secure  their  stock  for  the  day,  depositing 
their  purchases  in  some  huge  porters'  baskets  placed 
upon  the  ground.  Between  the  roadway  and  the 
pavilion  these  baskets  were  to  be  seen  coming  and 
going  on  all  sides,  knocking  against  the  crowded  heads 
of  the  bystanders,  who  resented  the  pushing.  .  .  . 

A  bright  glow  at  the  far  end  of  the  Rue  Rambuteau 
announced  the  break  of  day.  The  far-spreading  voice 
of  the  markets  was  becoming  more  sonorous,  and 
every  now  and  then  the  peals  of  a  bell  ringing  in  some 
distant  pavilion  mingled  with  the  swelling,  rising 
clamour.  .  .  .  The  deep  gloom  brooding  in  the  hol- 
lows of  the  roofs  multiplied,  as  it  were,  the  forest  of 
pillars,  and  infinitely  increased  the  number  of  the 
delicate  ribs,  railed  galleries,  and  transparent  shutters, 
and  over  the  phantom  city  and  far  away  into  the 
depths  of  the  shade,  a  teeming,  flowering  vegetation 
of  luxuriant  metal-work,  with  spindle-shaped  stems 
and  twining  knotted  branches,  covered  the  vast 
expanse  as  with  the  foliage  of  some  ancient  forest. 
Several  departments  of  the  markets  still  slumbered 


1^3  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

behind  their  closed  iron  gates.  .  .  .  Among  the  vege- 
tables and  fruit  and  flowers  the  noise  and  bustle 
gradually  increased.  The  whole  place  was  by  degrees 
waking  up,  from  the  popular  quarter  where  the  cab- 
bages are  piled  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  to  the 
lazy  and  wealthy  district  which  only  hangs  up  its 
pullets  and  pheasants  when  the  hands  of  the  clock 
point  to  eight. 

The  great  covered  alleys  were  now  teeming  with 
life.  All  along  the  footways  on  both  sides  of  the  road 
there  were  still  many  market-gardeners,  with  other 
small  growers  from  the  environs  of  Paris,  who  dis- 
played baskets  containing  their  '  gatherings  '  of  the 
previous  evening — bundles  of  vegetables  and  clusters 
of  fruit.  Whilst  the  crowd  incessantly  paced  hither 
and  thither,  vehicles  of  divers  kinds  entered  the 
covered  ways,  where  their  drivers  checked  the  trot 
of  the  bell-jingling  horses.  ...  In  the  cut-flower 
market,  all  over  the  footways,  to  the  right  and  left, 
women  were  seated  in  front  of  large  rectangular 
baskets  full  of  bunches  of  roses,  violets,  dahlias,  and 
marguerites.  At  times  the  clumps  darkened  and 
looked  like  splotches  of  blood,  at  others  they 
brightened  into  silvery  greys  of  the  softest  tones. 
A  lighted  candle,  standing  near  one  basket,  set  amidst 
the  general  blackness  quite  a  melody  of  colour — the 
bright  variegations  of  marguerites,  the  blood-red 
crimson  of  dahlias,  the  bluey  purple  of  violets,  and 
the  warm  flesh  tints  of  roses.  And  nothing  could 
have  been  sweeter  or  more  suggestive  of  springtide 
than  this  soft  breath  of  perfume  encountered  on  the 
footway. 

EMILE   ZOLA. 
Translated  by  Ernest  A .  Vizetelly. 


SOME  PARISIAN  PHASES  143 

A  PICTURE  OF  PARIS 
At    Five    in    the   Morning 

Now  the  darkness  breaks, 
Flight  it  slowly  takes  ; 
Now  the  morning  wakes. 

Roofs  around  to  gild. 
Lamps  give  paler  light. 
Houses  grow  more  white  ; 
Now  the  day's  in  sight, 

Markets  all  are  hlled. 

From  La  Vilette 
Comes  young  Susctie, 
Her  flowers  to  set 

Upon  the  quay. 
His  donkey,  Pierre 
Is  driving  near. 
From  Vinccnnes  here 

His  fruit  brings  he. 

Florists  ope  their  eyes, 
Oyster-women  rise. 
Grocers,  who  are  wise, 

Start  from  bed  at  dawn  ; 
Artisans  now  toil. 
Poets  paper  soil, 
Pedants  eyesight  spoil. 

Idlers  only  yawn. 

I  see  Javotte 

Who  cries  '  Carotte  !' 

And  sells  a  lot 

Of  parsnips  cheap. 


144  THE  CHAR]\I  OF  PARIS 

Her  voice  so  shrill 
The  air  can  fill 
And  drown  it  will 

The  chimney-sweep.  .  .  . 

Love's  pilgrims  creep 
With  purpose  deep, 
And  measured  step 

Where  none  can  see  ; 
The  diligence 
Is  leaving  France 
To  seek  Mayence 

Or  Italy. 

'  Father,  adieu  ! 
Good-bye,  mother  too, 
And  the  same  to  you, 

Each  little  one. ' 
Now  horses  neigh, 
And  the  whip's  in  play, 
Windows  ring  away — 

From  sight  they're  gone  ! 

In  every  place 

New  things  I  trace — 

No  empty  place 

Can  now  be  found  ; 
But  great  and  small, 
And  short  and  tall, 
Beggars  and  all 

In  crowds  abound. 

Ne'er  the  like  has  been  ; 
Now  they  all  begin 
Such  a  grievous  din, 
They  split  my  head  ; 


SOME  PARISIAN  PHASES  145 

How  I  feel  it  ache 
With  the  noise  they  make  ! — 
Paris  is  awake, 
So  I'll  go  to  bed  ! 

M.    DESAUGIERS. 


PARIS  AWAKENING  FROM  SLEEP 

Paris  awoke  from  sleep  with  a  smiling  indolence.  A 
mass  of  vapour,  following  the  valley  of  the  Seine, 
shrouded  the  two  banks  from  view.  This  mist  was 
light  and  milky,  and  the  sun,  gathering  strength,  was 
slowly  tinging  it  with  radiance.  Nothing  of  the  city 
was  distinguishable  through  this  floating  muslin.  In 
the  hollows  the  haze  thickened  and  assumed  a  bhiish 
tint  ;  while  over  certain  broad  expanses  delicate 
transparencies  appeared,  a  golden  dust,  beneath 
which  you  could  divine  the  depths  of  the  streets  ; 
and  up  above  domes  and  steeples  rent  the  mist, 
rearing  grey  outlines  to  which  clung  shreds  of  the 
haze  which  they  had  pierced.  At  times  cloudlets  of 
yellow  smoke  would,  like  giant  birds,  heavy  of  wing, 
slowly  soar  on  high,  and  then  mingle  with  the  atmo- 
sphere which  seemed  to  absorb  them.  And  above  all 
this  immensity,  this  mass  of  cloud,  hanging  in  slumber 
over  Paris,  a  sky  of  extreme  purity,  of  a  faint  and 
whitening  blue,  spread  out  its  mighty  vault.  The  sun 
was  climbing  the  heavens,  scattering  a  spray  of  soft 
rays  ;  a  pale  golden  light,  akin  in  hue  to  the  flaxen 
tresses  of  a  child,  was  streaming  down  like  rain,  filling 
the  atmosphere  with  the  warm  quiver  of  its  sparkle. 
It  was  like  a  festival  of  the  infinite,  instinct  with 
sovereign  peacefulness  and  gentle  gaiety,  whilst  the 
city,  chequered  with  golden  beams,  still  remained  lazy 

10 


146  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

and  sleepy,  unwilling  to  reveal  itself  by  casting  off  its 
coverlet  of  lace.  ...  At  last  .  .  .  Paris  came  slowly 
into  view.  Not  a  breath  of  wind  stirred  ;  it  was  as  if 
a  magician  had  slowly  waved  his  wand.  The  last 
gauzy  film  detached  itself,  soared  and  vanished  in  the 
air  ;  and  the  city  spread  out  without  a  shadow,  under 
the  conquering  sun. 

A  far-stretching  valley  appeared,  with  a  myriad 
buildings  huddled  together.  Over  the  distant  range 
of  hills  were  scattered  close-set  roofs,  and  you  could 
divine  that  the  sea  of  houses  rolled  afar  off  behind 
the  undulating  ground,  into  the  fields  hidden  from 
sight.  It  was  as  the  ocean,  with  all  the  infinity  and 
mystery  of  its  waves.  Paris  spread  out  as  vast  as  the 
heavens  on  high.  Burnished  with  the  sunshine  that 
lovely  morning,  the  city  looked  like  a  field  of  yellow 
corn  ;  and  the  huge  picture  was  all  simplicity,  com- 
pounded of  two  colours  only,  the  pale  blue  of  the  sky, 
and  the  golden  reflections  of  the  housetops.  The 
stream  of  light  from  the  spring  sun  invested  every- 
thing with  the  beauty  of  a  new  birth.  So  pure  was 
the  light  that  the  minutest  objects  became  visible. 
Paris,  with  its  chaotic  maze  of  stonework,  shone  as 
though  under  glass.  From  time  to  time,  however,  a 
breath  of  wind  passed  athwart  this  bright,  quiescent 
serenity  ;  and  then  the  outlines  of  some  districts  grew 
faint,  and  quivered  as  if  they  were  being  viewed 
through  an  invisible  flame. 

Helene  took  interest  at  first  in  gazing  on  the  large 
expanse  spread  under  her  windows,  the  slope  of  the 
Trocadero,  and  the  far-stretching  quays.  ...  In  the 
centre  of  the  picture,  the  Seine  spread  out  and  reigned 
between  its  grey  banks,  to  which  rows  of  casks,  steam 
ciaiius,  and  carts  drawn  up  in  line,  gave  a  seaport 


SOME  PARISIAN  PHASES  147 

kind  of  aspect.  Helene's  eyes  were  always  turning 
towards  this  shining  river,  on  which  boats  passed  to 
and  fro  hke  birds  with  inky  plumage.  Her  loolcs 
involuntarily  followed  the  water's  stately  course, 
which,  like  a  silver  band,  cut  Paris  atwain.  .  .  . 
Bridge  followed  bridge,  they  appeared  to  get  closer, 
to  rise  one  abi  .c  the  other  like  viaducts  forming  a 
flight  of  steps,  and  pierced  with  all  kinds  of  arches  ; 
while  the  river,  wending  its  way  beneath  these  airy 
structures,  showed  here  and  there  small  patches  of  its 
blue  robe,  patches  which  became  narrower  and  nar- 
rower, more  and  more  indistinct.  .  .  .  The  bridges 
on  either  side  of  the  island  of  La  Cite  were  like  mere 
films  stretching  from  one  bank  to  the  other  ;  while  the 
golden  towers  of  Notre-Dame  sprang  up  like  boun- 
dary-marks of  the  horizon,  beyond  which  river,  build- 
ings, and  clumps  of  trees  became  naught  but  sparkling 
sunshine.  Then  Helene,  dazzled,  withdrew  her  gaze 
from  this  the  triumphant  heart  of  Paris,  where  the 
whole  glory  of  the  city  appeared  to  blaze. 

On  the  right  bank,  amongst  the  clustering  trees  of 
the  Champs-Elysecs  she  saw  the  crystal  buildings  of 
the  Palace  of  Industry  glittering  with  a  snowy  sheen  ; 
farther  away,  behind  the  roof  of  the  Madeleine,  which 
looked  like  a  tombstone,  towered  the  vast  mass  of 
the  Optra  House  ;  then  there  were  other  edifices, 
cupolas  and  towers,  the  Vendome  Column,  the  church 
of  Saint-Vincent  de  Paul,  the  tower  of  Saint-Jacques  ; 
and  nearer  in,  the  massive  cube-like  ]:)avilion5  of  the 
new  Louvre  and  the  Tuileries,  half  hidden  by  a  wood 
of  chestnut-trees.  On  the  left  bank  the  dome  of  the 
Invalides  shone  with  gilding ;  beyond  it  the  two 
irregular  towers  of  Saint-Sulpice  paled  in  the  bright 
light ;  and  yet  farther  in  the  rear,  to  the  right  of  the 

10 — 2 


148  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

new  spires  of  Sainte-Clotilde,  the  bluey  Pantheon,  erect 
on  a  height,  its  fine  colonnade  showing  against  the  sky, 
overlooked  the  city,  poised  in  the  air,  as  it  were,  mo- 
tionless, with  the  silken  hues  of  a  captive  balloon.  .  .  . 
At  this  early  hour  the  oblique  sun  did  not  light  up 
the  house-fronts  looking  towards  the  Trocadero  ;  not 
a  window-pane  of  these  threw  back  its  rays.  The 
skylights  on  some  roofs  alone  sparkled  with  the 
glittering  reflex  of  mica  amidst  the  red  of  the  adjacent 
chimney-pots.  The  houses  were  mostly  of  a  sombre 
grey,  warmed  by  reflected  beams  ;  still  rays  of  light 
were  transpiercing  certain  districts,  and  long  streets, 
stretching  in  front  of  Helene,  set  streaks  of  sunshine 
amidst  the  shade.  It  was  only  on  the  left  that  the 
far-spreading  horizon,  almost  perfect  in  its  circular 
sweep,  was  broken  by  the  heights  of  Montmartre  and 
Pere-Lachaise.  The  details  so  clearly  defined  in  the 
foreground,  the  innumerable  denticles  of  the  chimneys, 
the  little  black  specks  of  the  thousands  of  windows, 
grew  less  and  less  distinct  as  you  gazed  farther  and 
farther  away,  till  everything  became  mingled  in  con- 
fusion— the  pell-mell  of  an  endless  city,  whose  fau- 
bourgs, afar  off,  looked  like  shingly  beaches,  steeped 
in  a  violet  haze  under  the  bright,  streaming,  vibrating 
light  that  fell  from  the  heavens. 

EMILE   ZOLA. 

Translated  by  Ernest  A.  Vizetclly. 

PARIS  AT  DAWN 
If  you  would  receive  from  the  old  city  an  impression 
which  the  modern  one  is  quite  incapable  of  giving 
you,  ascend,  on  the  morning  of  some  great  holiday, 
at  sunrise,  on  Easter  or  Whit  Sunday,  to  some 
elevated  point  from  which  your  eye  can  command 


SOME  PARISIAN  PHASES  149 

the  whole  capital — and  attend  the  awakening  of  the 
chimes.  Behold,  at  a  signal  from  heaven— for  it  is 
the  sun  that  gives  it — those  thousand  churches  start- 
ing from  their  sleep.  At  fiist  you  hear  only  scattered 
tinklings,  going  from  church  to  church,  as  when 
musicians  are  giving  one  another  notice  to  begin. 
Then,  all  on  a  sudden,  behold — for  there  are  moments 
when  the  ear  itself  seems  to  see — behold,  ascending 
at  the  same  moment,  from  every  steeple,  a  column 
of  sound,  as  it  were,  a  cloud  of  harmony.  At  first  the 
vibration  of  each  bell  mounts  up  direct,  clear,  and, 
as  it  were,  isolated  from  the  rest,  into  the  splendid 
morning  sky  ;  then,  by  degrees,  as  they  expand,  they 
mingle,  unite,  are  lost  in  each  other,  and  confounded 
in  one  magnificent  concert. 

Then  it  is  all  one  mass  of  sonorous  vibrations,  in- 
cessantly sent  forth  from  the  innumerable  steeples — ■ 
floating,  undulating,  bounding,  and  eddying,  over  the 
town,  and  extending  far  beyond  the  horizon  the 
deafening  circle  of  its  oscillations.  Yet  that  sea  of 
harmony  is  not  a  chaos.  Wide  and  deep  as  it  is,  it 
has  not  lost  its  transparency  ;  you  perceive  the  wind- 
ing of  each  group  of  notes  that  escapes  from  the 
several  rings  ;  you  can  follow  the  dialogue,  by  turns 
grave  and  clamorous,  of  the  crecclle  and  the  bourdon 
— you  perceive  the  octaves  leaping  from  one  steeple 
to  another  ;  you  observe  them  springing  aloft,  winged, 
light,  and  whistling,  from  the  bell  of  silver — falling 
broken  and  limjiing  from  the  bell  of  wood.  .  .  . 

Then,  again,  from  time  to  time,  that  mass  of  sub- 
lime sounds  half  opens,  and  gives  passage  to  the  stretto 
of  the  Ave  Marie,  which  glitters  like  an  aigrette  of 
stars.  Below,  in  the  deepest  of  the  concert,  you  dis- 
tinguish confusedly  the  internal  music  of  the  churches, 


150  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

exhaled  through  the  vibrating  pores  of  their  vaulted 
roof.  Here,  certainly,  is  an  opera  worth  hearing — 
ordinarily,  the  murmur  that  escapes  from  Paris  in  the 
day-time  is  the  city  talking ;  in  the  night,  it  is  the 
city  breathing  ;  but  here,  it  is  the  city  singing. 

Listen,  then,  to  this  tutti  of  the  steeples — diffuse 
over  the  whole  the  murmur  of  half  a  million  of  people 
— the  everlasting  plaint  of  the  river — the  boundless 
breathings  of  the  wind — the  grave  and  far  quartet  of 
the  four  forests  placed  upon  the  hills,  in  the  distance, 
like  so  many  vast  organs,  immersing  in  them,  as  in  a 
demi-tint,  all  the  central  concert  that  would  other- 
wise be  too  rugged  or  too  sharp  ;  and  then  say,  whether 
you  know  of  anything  in  the  world  more  rich,  more 
joyous,  more  golden,  more  dazzling,  than  this  tumult 
of  bells  and  chimes — this  furnace  of  music — these 
thousand  voices  of  brass,  all  singing  together  in  flutes 
of  stone  three  hundred  feet  high — this  city  which  is 
all  one  orchestra — this  symphony  as  loud  as  a  tem- 
pest. 

Author  Unknown. 


PARIS  :  A  SUNSET  PICTURE 

Paris  was  brightening  in  the  sunshine.  After  the  first 
ray  had  fallen  on  Notre-Dame,  others  had  followed, 
streaming  across  the  city.  The  luminary,  dipping  in 
the  west,  rent  the  clouds  asunder,  and  the  various 
districts  spread  out,  motley  with  ever-changing  lights 
and  shadows.  For  a  time  the  whole  of  the  left  bank 
was  of  a  leaden  hue,  while  the  right  was  speckled 
with  spots  of  light  which  made  the  verge  of  the  river 
resemble  the  skin  of  some  huge  beast  of  prey.  Then 
these  resemblances  varied  and  vanished  at  the  mercy 


SOME  PARISIAN  PHASES  151 

of  the  wnnd,  which  drove  the  clouds  before  it.  Above 
the  burnished  gold  of  the  housetops  dark  patches 
floated,  all  in  the  same  direction  and  with  the  same 
gentle  and  silent  motion.  Some  of  them  were  very 
large,  sailing  along  with  all  the  majestic  grace  of  an 
admiral's  ship  ;  and  surrounded  by  smaller  ones,  pre- 
serving the  regixlar  order  of  a  squadron  in  line  of 
battle.  Then  one  vast  shadow,  with  a  gap  yawning 
like  a  serpent's  mouth,  trailed  along,  and  for  a  while 
hid  Paris,  which  it  seemed  ready  to  devour.  And 
when  it  had  reached  the  far-off  horizon,  looking  no 
larger  than  a  worm,  a  gush  of  light  streamed  from  a 
rift  in  a  cloud,  and  fell  into  the  void  which  it  had  left. 
The  golden  cascade  could  be  seen  descending  first  like 
a  thread  of  fine  sand,  then  swelling  into  a  huge  cone, 
and  raining  in  a  continuous  shower  on  the  Champs- 
Elysees  district,  which  it  inundated  with  a  splashing, 
dancing  radiance.  For  a  long  time  did  this  shower  of 
sparks  descend,  spraying  continuously  like  a  fusee. 

But  a  change  had  come  over  the  sky.  The  sun,  in 
its  descent  towards  the  slopes  of  Meudon,  had  just 
burst  through  the  last  clouds  in  all  its  splendour.  The 
azure  vault  was  illuminated  with  glory  ;  deep  on  the 
horizon  the  crumbling  ridge  of  chalk  clouds,  blotting 
out  the  distant  suburbs  of  Charenton  and  Choisy-le- 
Roi,  now  reared  rocks  of  a  tender  pink,  outhned  with 
brilliant  crimson  ;  the  flotilla  of  cloudlets,  drifting 
slowly  through  the  blue  above  Paris,  was  decked  with 
purple  sails  ;  while  the  delicate  network,  seemingly 
fashioned  of  white  silk  thread,  above  Montmartre, 
was  suddenly  transformed  into  golden  cord,  whose 
meshes  would  snare  the  stars  as  soon  as  they  should 
rise. 

Beneath  the  flaming  vault  of  heaven  lay  Paris,  a 


152  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

mass  of  yellow,  striped  with  huge  shadows.  ...  In 
an  orange-tinted  haze,  cabs  and  omnibuses  crossed  in 
all  directions,  amidst  a  crowd  of  pedestrians,  whose 
swarming  blackness  was  softened  and  irradiated  by 
splashes  of  hght.  The  students  of  a  seminary  were 
hurrying  in  serried  ranks  along  the  Quai  de  Billy, 
and  the  trail  of  cassocks  acquired  an  ochraceous  hue 
in  the  diffuse  light.  Farther  away,  vehicles  and  foot- 
passengers  faded  from  view  ;  it  was  only  by  their 
gleaming  lamps  that  you  were  made  aware  of  the 
vehicles  vi^hich,  one  behind  the  other,  were  crossing 
some  distant  bridge.  On  the  left  the  straight,  lofty, 
pink  chimneys  of  the  Army  Bakehouse  were  belching 
forth  whirling  clouds  of  flesh-tinted  smoke  ;  whilst, 
across  the  river,  the  beautiful  elms  of  the  Quai  d'Orsay 
rose  up  in  a  dark  mass  transpierced  by  shafts  of  hght. 
The  Seine,  whose  banks  the  oblique  rays  were  en- 
filading, was  rolling  dancing  wavelets,  streaked  with 
scattered  splashes  of  blue,  green,  and  yellow ;  but 
farther  up  the  river,  in  lieu  of  this  blotchy  colouring, 
suggestive  of  an  Eastern  sea,  the  waters  assumed  a 
uniform  golden  hue,  which  became  more  and  more 
dazzling.  You  might  have  thought  that  some  ingots 
were  pouring  forth  from  an  invisible  crucible  on  the 
horizon,  broadening  out  with  a  coruscation  of  bright 
colours  as  it  gradually  grew  colder.  And  at  intervals 
over  this  brilhant  stream,  the  bridges,  with  curves 
growing  ever  more  slender  and  delicate,  threw,  as  it 
were,  grey  bars,  till  there  came  at  last  a  fiery  jumble 
of  houses,  above  which  rose  the  towers  of  Notre-Dame, 
flaring  red  like  torches.  Riglit  and  left  alike  the 
edifices  were  all  aflame.  The  glass  roof  of  the  Palais 
de  ITndustrie  appeared  like  a  bed  of  glowing  embers 
amidst    the    Champs-Elysees    groves.      Farther    on, 


SOME  PARISIAN  PHASES  153 

behind  the  roof  of  the  Madeleine,  the  huge  pile  of  the 
Opera  House  shone  out  like  a  mass  of  burnished 
copper  ;  and  the  summits  of  other  buildings,  cupolas, 
and  towers,  the  Vendome  column,  the  church  of  Saint- 
Vincent  de  Paul,  the  tower  of  Saint-Jacques,  and, 
nearer  in,  the  pavilions  of  the  new  Louvre  and  the 
Tuilerics,  were  crowned  by  a  blaze,  which  lent  them 
the  aspect  of  sacrificial  pyres.  The  dome  of  the  In- 
valides  was  flaring  with  such  brilliancy  that  you  in- 
stinctively feared  lest  it  should  suddenly  topple  down 
and  scatter  burning  flakes  over  the  neighbourhood. 
Beyond  the  irregular  towers  of  Saint-Sulpice,  the 
Pantheon  stood  out  against  the  sky  in  dull  splendour, 
like  some  royal  palace  of  conflagration  reduced  to 
embers.  Then,  as  the  sun  declined,  the  pyre-like 
edifices  gradually  set  the  whole  of  Paris  on  fire. 
Flashes  sped  over  the  housetops,  while  black  smoke 
lingered  in  the  valleys.  Every  frontage  turned  toward 
the  Trocad^ro  seemed  to  be  red-hot,  the  glass  of  the 
windows  glittering  and  emitting  a  shower  of  sparks, 
which  darted  upwards  as  though  some  invisible 
bellows  were  ever  urging  the  huge  conflagration  into 
greater  activity.  Sheaves  of  flame  were  also  ever 
rising  afresh  from  the  adjacent  districts,  where  the 
streets  opened,  now  dark,  and  now  all  ablaze.  Even 
far  over  the  plain,  from  a  ruddy,  ember-like  glow 
suffusing  the  destroyed  faubourgs,  occasional  flashes 
of  flame  shot  up  as  from  some  fire  struggling  again 
into  life.  Ere  long  a  furnace  seemed  raging,  all  Paris 
burned,  the  heavens  became  yet  more  empurpled,  and 
the  clouds  hung  like  so  much  blood  over  the  vast  city, 
coloured  red  and  gold. 

EMILE  zor.A. 
Translated  by  Ernest  A.  Vizt telly. 


154  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

PARIS  AT  FIVE  IN  THE  AFTERNOON 
Now  the  motley  throng. 
As  it  rolls  along 
With  its  torrents  strong 

Seems  to  ebb  away. 
Business-time  has  past. 
Dinner  comes  at  last, 
Cloths  are  spreading  fast,^ 

Night  succeeds  to  day. 

Here  woodcock  fine 
I  can  divine, — 
On  fowl  some  dine, 

And  turkey  too  ; 
While  here  a  lot 
Of  cabbage  hot 
All  in  a  pot 

With  beef  they  stew.  .  .  . 
Dinner's  over,  so 
To  cafes  they  go, 
While  their  faces  glow  ; 

Then  elate  with  wine, 
Yon  gourmand  so  great 
Who  long  dining  sate. 
Passes  one  whom  fate 

Allowed  not  to  dine. 
The  mocha  steams. 
The  punch-bowl  gleams. 
And  perfume  seems 

To  fill  the  air. 
'  Ice,  ice  !'  they  call 
And  '  Coffee  !'  bawl ; 
'  Could  you  at  all 

The  paper  spare  ?' 


SOME  PARISIAN  PHASES  155 

Journals  read  o'er, 
Wine  down  they  pour, 
Or  sit  before 

Tables  for  play. 
V/ith  watchful  eyes. 
And  aspect  wise, 
Stands  to  criticize 

The  habitue. 

There  tragedy 
They  go  to  see. 
Here  comedy 

Asserts  her  reign ; 
A  juggler  here, 
A  drama  there. 
Your  purse  would  clear, — 

Nor  sues  in  vain. 

Now  the  lamps  are  bright, 
Chandeliers  alight, 
Shops  are  quite  a  sight. 

While  with  wicked  eye 
Stands  the  little  queen 
Of  the  magazine, 
And  with  roguish  mien 

Tempts  the  folk  to  buy.  .  .  . 

Her  labours  done, 
Ilcr  dress  put  on, 
To  dance  has  gone 

The  gay  griselie. 
Her  grandma  dear 
And  neighbours  near 
Their  souls  will  cheer 

With  cool  picquct.  .  .  . 


156  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

Carriages  with  pride 
Take  their  lords  inside. 
Then  away  they  ghde 

In  a  solemn  row. 
Cabs  retreat,  of  course, 
Wliile  the  drivers  hoarse 
Call  with  all  their  force, 

As  they  backwards  go. 

Trade  begins  to  drop, 
Finding  custom  stop, 
Tradesmen  shut  up  shop  ; 

Here's  a  contrast  strange  ! 
Noisy  thoroughfare, 
Crowd-encumbered  square, 
To  a  desert  bare 

Now  is  doomed  to  change.  .  .  . 

Now  there's  nought  in  sight 
Save  the  lamp's  pale  light, — 
Scattered  through  the  night. 

Timidly  they  peep  ; 
These,  too,  disappear, 
Nothing  far  or  near 
But  the  breeze  I  hear, — • 

All  are  fast  asleep. 

M.    DESAUGIERS. 

DUSK  FALLING  OVER  PARIS 

A    Vista    of    Sovereign    Grandeur 
For  a  moment  Pierre  paused  under  the  portions  of  the 
Madeleine,  on  the  summit  of  the  great  flight  of  steps 
which,  rising  above  the  railings,  dominates  the  Place. 
Before  him  was  the  Rue  Roy  ale  dipping  down  to  the 


SOME  PARISIAN  PHASES  157 

expanse  of  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  where  rose  the 
obelisk  and  the  pair  of  plashing  fountains.  And, 
farther  yet,  the  paling  colonnade  of  the  Chamber  of 
Deputies  bounded  the  horizon.  It  was  a  vista  of 
sovereign  grandeur  under  that  pale  sky  over  which 
twilight  was  slowly  stealing.  The  thoroughfares 
seemed  to  expand,  the  edifices  receded,  and  assumed  a 
quivering,  soaring  aspect  like  that  of  the  palaces  of 
dreamland.  No  other  capital  in  the  world  could 
boast  a  scene  of  such  airy  pomp,  such  grandiose  mag- 
nificence, at  that  hour  of  vagueness,  when  falling  night 
imjiarts  to  cities  a  dreamy  semblance,  the  infinite  of 
human  immensity.  .  .  . 

He  descended  the  steps  and,  yielding  to  some  obsti- 
nate impulse,  began  to  walk  through  the  flower- 
market,  a  late  winter  market  where  the  first  azaleas 
were  opening  with  a  little  shiver.  Some  women  were 
purchasing  Nice  roses  and  violets  ;  and  Pierre  looked 
at  them  as  if  he  were  interested  in  all  that  soft,  deli- 
cate, perfumed  luxury.  But  suddenly  he  .  .  .  went  off, 
starting  along  the  Boulevards. 

He  walked  straight  before  him  without  knowing  why 
or  whither.  The  falling  darkness  surprised  him  as  if  it 
were  an  unexpected  phenomenon.  Raising  his  eyes  to 
the  sky,  he  felt  astonished  at  seeing  its  azure  gently 
])ale  between  the  slender  black  streaks  of  the  chim- 
neys. And  the  huge  golden  letters  by  which  names  or 
trades  were  advertised  on  every  balcony  also  seemed 
to  him  singular  in  the  last  gleams  of  the  daylight. 
Never  before  had  he  paid  attention  to  the  motley 
tints  seen  on  the  house-fronts,  the  painted  mirrors,  the 
blinds,  the  coats  of  arms,  the  posters  of  violent  hues, 
the  magnificent  shops,  like  drawing-rooms  and 
boudoirs  open  to  the  full  liglit.   And  then,  both  in  the 


158  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

roadway  and  along  the  foot-pavements  between  the 
blue,  red,  or  yellow  columns  and  kiosks,  what  mighty 
traffic  there  was,  what  an  extraordinary  crowd  !  The 
vehicles  rolled  along  in  a  thundering  stream  :  upon  all 
sides  billows  of  cabs  were  parted  by  the  ponderous 
tacking  of  huge  omnibuses,  which  suggested  lofty, 
bright-hued  battle-ships.  And  on  either  hand,  and 
farther  and  farther,  and  even  among  the  wheels,  the 
flood  of  passengers  rushed  on  incessantly,  with  the 
conquering  haste  of  ants  in  a  state  of  revolution. 
Whence  came  all  those  people,  and  whither  were  all 
those  vehicles  going  ?  How  stupefying  and  torturing 
it  all  was.  .  .  .  Night  was  approaching,  the  first  gas- 
burners  were  being  lighted  ;  it  was  the  dusk  of  Paris, 
the  hour  when  real  darkness  has  not  yet  come,  when 
the  electric  lights  flame  in  the  dying  day.  Lamps  shone 
forth  upon  all  sides,  the  shop-fronts  were  fast  being 
illumined.  Soon,  moreover,  right  along  the  Boulevards 
the  vehicles  would  carry  their  vivid  starry  lights,  like  a 
Milky  Way  on  the  march  betwixt  the  foot  pavements 
all  glowing  with  lanterns  and  cordons  and  girandoles, 
a  dazzling  profusion  of  radiance  akin  to  sunlight.  .  .  . 
The  hard  day  was  over,  and  now  the  Paris  of  Pleasure 
was  lighting  up,  for  its  night  of  fete.  The  cafes,  the 
wine  shops,  the  restaurants  flared  and  displayed  their 
bright  metal  bars  and  their  little  white  tables  behind 
their  clear  and  lofty  windows.  .  .  .  Paris  v/hich  was 
thus  awaking  with  the  first  flashes  of  the  gas  was  al- 
ready full  of  the  gaiety  of  enjoyment. 

EMILE   ZOLA. 
Translated  by  Ernest  A.  Vizetelly. 


SOME  PARISIAN  PHASES  159 

YOUTH  SEEKING  FORTUNE  IN  PARIS 
A  Picture  of  Paris  by  Night 

ISHMAEL  .  .  .  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  great  city, 
where  the  river  flows  between  the  old  Palace  of  the 
Medicis  and  the  new  Palace  of  the  Legislature,  spanned 
by  historic  bridges,  darkened  by  the  shadows  of  his- 
toric towers — a  river  whose  waters,  lapping  against 
the  granite  quay  with  a  little  babbling  sound  like  the 
prattle  of  a  child,  could  tell  of  tragedy  and  comedy  .  .  . 
hate,  love,  mirth,  woe,  were  it  a  little  more  articulate 
— a  river  which,  to  the  mind  of  the  man  who  knows 
Paris,  does  recall  a  world  of  strange  and  terrible 
memories — a  river  which  has  run  red  with  blood  in  the 
days  that  are  gone.  .  .  . 

To  the  young  man  from  the  green  hillside  across  the 
quiet  Coucsnon,  Paris  to-night  seemed  altogether  a 
strange  city.  He  had  never  taken  kindly  to  the  long 
narrow  streets  of  tall  houses,  or  even  to  the  glittering 
boulevard  with  its  formal  avenue  of  young  trees.  But 
he  had  come  to  Paris  for  a  purpose — come  to  win  his 
independence,  to  earn  freedom,  fearlessness,  and  the 
right  to  hope.  He  had  fed  for  the  last  year  or  so  upon 
stories  of  men  who  had  entered  Paris  shoeless,  shirt- 
less, carrying  a  few  rags  in  an  old  cotton  handkerchief, 
a  few  sous  for  total  reserve  fund  against  starvation, 
and  who,  years  afterwards,  had  become  men  of  mark, 
or  power  in  the  city.  He  came  filled  to  the  brim  with 
ambition  ;  believing  in  himself,  without  conceit  or 
arrogance,  but  with  that  unquestionable  faith  in  his 
own  force  and  his  own  cajmcity  which  cannot  be 
plucked  from  the  breast  of  the  conqueror-elect  in  the 
world's  strife.  .  .  . 

And  now  niglit  was  closing  in,  and  the  traveller  had 


i6o  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

to  find  himself  a  shelter.  ...  He  remembered  the 
names  of  two  spots  in  Paris — the  theatre  at  which  his 
mother  acted,  and  the  Rue  de  Shelas,  the  dreary  street 
of  tall,  stone,  barrack-hke  houses,  a  new  street  beyond 
the  Rue  Poissoniere,  where  his  mother  had  died.  He 
had  hated  the  street  with  a  deadly  hatred  ;  and  yet  to- 
night, friendless  and  alone,  he  turned  his  face  auto- 
matically towards  the  last  home  he  had  known  in  Paris. 

The  Rue  de  Shelas  seemed  at  the  other  end  of  the 
world  to  this  tired  wanderer,  who  had  tramped  so 
many  weary  miles  under  good  and  evil  weather  within 
the  last  week.  He  had  made  this  last  day's  march 
longer  than  that  of  any  previous  day,  and  he  was 
thoroughly  beaten.  He  had  bought  himself  a  blouse 
and  a  coloured  shirt  at  Caen,  and  his  coat  and  fine 
linen  were  tied  in  a  httle  bundle  slung  across  his 
shoulder.  He  was  clad  as  workmen  are  clad,  yet  he  did 
not  look  a  workman ;  and  the  blouses  he  met  on  his 
way  glanced  at  him  suspiciously  as  at  a  wolf  in  sheep's 
clothing.  He  left  the  glitter  and  dazzle  of  the  lighted 
boulevard  as  soon  as  he  could,  and  plunged  into  the 
labyrinth  of  murky  streets,  through  which  the  inter- 
minable Rue  de  Lafayette  now  pierces,  a  mighty 
artery  leading  from  wealth  to  poverty,  from  idleness 
to  labour,  from  daintiness  and  delight  to  hard  fare  and 
anxious  hearts,  from  the  gommeux  to  the  blouse.  It 
was  long  before  he  turned  into  the  well-remem- 
bered street,  which  stood  upon  the  verge  of  civiliza- 
tion in  those  days — dreary  waste  places  and  houses 
newly  begun  surrounding  it  on  all  sides.  .  .  . 

Lamps  glimmered  here  and  there  in  the  darkness 
below.  He  saw  the  external  boulevard  yonder — a 
long  grey  line — and  beyond  that  dreary  border-land 
of  waste  and  squalor  which  in  those  days  stretched 


SOME  PARISIAN  PHASES  i6i 

between  the  outskirts  of  the  town  and  the  fortifica- 
tions— that  master-work  of  the  Citizen  King's  reign — 
master-work  which  had  cost  the  King  his  popularity. 
It  was  a  dismal  quarter  of  the  town.  Yonder,  folded 
in  the  shadows  of  night,  lay  the  cemetery  of  Mont- 
martre,  the  field  of  rest.  ^^  e.  braddon. 

NIGHT  FALLING  OVER  PARIS 

All  Paris  was  now  illumined.  The  tiny  dancing  flames 
had  speckled  the  sea  of  shadows  from  one  end  of  the 
horizon  to  the  other,  and  now,  as  in  a  summer  night, 
millions  of  fixed  stars  seemed  to  be  serenely  gleaming 
there.  Not  a  puff  of  air,  not  a  quiver  of  the  atmosphere 
stirred  these  lights,  to  all  appearance  suspended  in 
space.  Paris,  now  invisible,  had  fallen  into  the  depths 
of  an  abyss  as  vast  as  a  firmament.  At  times,  at  the 
base  of  the  Trocadero,  a  light — the  lamp  of  a  passing 
cab  or  omnibus — would  dart  across  the  gloom,  spark- 
ling like  a  shooting  star  ;  and  here  amidst  the  radiance 
of  the  gas-jets,  from  which  streamed  a  yellow  haze,  a 
confused  jumble  of  house-fronts  and  clustering  trees — 
green  like  the  trees  in  stage  scenery — could  be  vaguely 
discerned.  To  and  fro,  across  the  Pont  des  Invalides, 
gleaming  lights  flashed  without  ceasing  ;  far  below, 
across  a  band  of  denser  gloom,  appeared  a  marvellous 
train  of  comet-like  coruscations,  from  whose  lustrous 
tails  fell  a  rain  of  gold.  These  were  the  reflections  in 
the  Seine's  black  waters  of  the  lamps  on  the  bridge. 
From  this  point,  however,  the  unknown  began.  The 
long  curve  of  the  river  was  merely  described  by  a 
double  line  of  lights,  which  ever  and  anon  were 
coupled  to  other  transverse  linos,  so  that  the  whole 
looked   like   some    glittering   ladder,    thrown    across 

II 


r62  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

Pans,  with  its  ends  on  the  verge  of  the  heavens  among 
the  stars. 

To  the  left  there  was  another  trench  excavated 
athwart  the  gloom  ;  an  unbroken  chain  of  stars  shone 
forth  down  the  Champs  Elysees  from  the  Arc-de- 
Triomphe  to  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  where  a  new 
cluster    of    Pleiades    was    flashing ;    next    came   the 
gloomy  stretches  of  the  Tuileries  and  the  Louvre,  the 
blocks  of  houses  on  the  brink  of  the  water,  and  the 
Hotel-de-Ville  away  at  the  extreme  end — all  these 
masses  of  darkness  being  parted  here  and  there  by 
bursts  of  light  from  some  large  square  or  other ;  and 
farther  and  farther  away,  amidst  the  endless  confusion 
of  roofs,  appeared  scattered  gleams,  affording  faint 
glimpses  of  the  hollow  of  a  street  below,  the  corner  of 
some  boulevard,  or  the  brilliantly  illuminated  meet- 
ing-place of  several  thoroughfares.    On  the  opposite 
bank,  on  the  right,  the  Esplanade  alone  could  be  dis- 
cerned with  any  distinctness,  its  rectangle  marked  out 
in  flame,  like  an  Orion  of  a  winter's  night  bereft  of  his 
baldrick.    The  long  streets  of  the  Saint-Germain  dis- 
trict seemed  gloomy  with  their  fringe  of  infrequent 
lamps  ;  but  the  thickly  populated  quarters  beyond 
were  speckled  with  a  multitude  of  tiny  flames,  cluster- 
ing like  nebulae.   Away  towards  the  outskirts,  girdling 
the  whole  of  the  horizon,  swarmed  street-lamps  and 
lighted  windows,  filling  these  distant  parts  with  a 
dust,  as  it  were,  of  those  myriads  of  suns,  those  plane- 
tary atoms  which  the  naked  eye  cannot  discover.  The 
public  edifices  had  vanished  into  the  depths  of  the 
darkness  ;  not  a  lamp  marked  out  their  spires  and 
towers.    At  times  you  might  have  imagined  you  were 
gazing  on  some  gigantic  festival,  some  illuminated 
Cyclopean  monument,  with  staircases,  balusters,  win- 


SOxME  PARISIAN  PHASES  163 

dows,  pediments,  and  terraces — a  veritable  cosmos  of 
stone,  whose  wondrous  architecture  was  outHned  by 
the  gleaming  lights  of  a  myriad  lamps.  But  there  was 
always  a  speedy  return  of  the  one  feeling  that  new 
constellations  were  springing  into  being,  and  that  the 
heavens  were  spreading  both  above  and  below.  .  .  . 
Meanwhile  over  the  gleaming  expanse  of  Paris  a  rosy 
cloud  was  ascending  higher  and  higher.  It  might  have 
been  thought  the  fiery  breath  of  a  furnace.  At  first  it 
was  shadowy-pale  in  the  darkness — a  reflected  glow 
scarcely  seen.  Then  slowly,  as  the  evening  progressed, 
it  assumed  a  ruddier  hue  ;  and,  hanging  in  the  air, 
motionless  above  the  city,  deriving  its  being  from  all 
the  lights  and  noisy  life  which  breathed  from  below, 
it  seemed  like  one  of  those  clouds,  charged  with  flame 
and  lightning,  which  crown  the  craters  of  volcanoes. 

EMILE   ZOLA. 

Translated  by  Ernest  A.  Vizetclly. 

PARISIAN  NOCTURNE 

Roll,  roll  thy  slow  wave,  melancholy  Seine  : 
Beneath  each  bridge  round  which  the  dark  mists  twine. 
So  many  dead  have  past,  vile,  horrible  ; 
Dead,  but  their  souls  'twas  Paris  sent  to  hell. 
But  not  for  them  thou  haltest  thy  cold  tide. 
Thou,  whose  strange  aspect  makes  my  thoughts  run 
wide  ! 

There  stand  great  ruins  on  the  Tiber's  bound, 
Leading  the  traveller  to  a  past  profound  ; 
They,  'mid  black  ivy  and  dense  lichens  seen 
Appear  grey  heaps  against  a  ground  of  green. 
The  gay  Guadalquivir  to  orchards  throws 
His  smiles,  reflects  the  dusks,  and  '  boleros.' 

11—2 


i64  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

Pactole  has  gold,  his  bank  the  Bosphorus, 

Where  the  '  Kief  '  turns  his  slave  lascivious, 

A  town-ward  is  the  Rhine,  a  troubadour 

The  Lignon,  and  a  ruffian  the  Adour. 

The  Nile  lulls  plaintively  with  restful  waves 

By  dreams  so  sweet  the  mummies  in  their  graves. 

Proud  of  his  holy  craft,  Meschascebe 

Driveth  his  amber  waters  regally, 

And  sudden  firmaments  of  lights,  high  fast 

And  floating  battle  drift  in  cataracts  vast. 

Eurotas,  where  the  swans'  free  companies 

Fill  with  white  grace  dark  grounds  of  laurel-trees. 

While  the  clear  heaven  doth  rain  a  shower  of  wings 

Rhythmic  and  soft,  like  to  a  poet  sings. 

Last,  Ganges,  by  the  high  and  trembling  palm 

And  the  red  '  padma,'  flows  now  fierce,  now  calm, 

In  royal  guise,  the  while,  far  off,  the  crowd, 

Through  the  long  shrines,  pours  living  surges  loud, 

With  the  great  wooden  cymbals'  awful  din. 

While,  near  thee,  also,  drawing  reed-breaths  in. 

The  striped,  gold  tiger  waits  with  moistened  eyes, 

Stretched  forth,  the  agile  antelope's  surprise. 

Thou,  Seine,  hast  nothing  more  than  thy  quays  twain. 
Two  mouldered  quays  ;  from  end  to  end  in  vain 
One  spies,  for  aught  but  stalls  of  musty  books, 
And  idlers  making  ripples  with  their  hooks. 
But  when  the  evening  doth  with  mystery  steep 
The  passers-by  heavy  with  want  or  sleep, 
And  when  the  dying  sun  stains  Heaven  red, 
'Tis  well  for  dreamers  from  their  lairs  o'erhead 
To  steal,  and  nigh  Notre-Dame,  with  arms  inclin'd 
O'er  Paris  bridge,  muse,  hearts  and  locks  to  th'  wind  ! 
Behold, — the  clouds,  driv'n  by  the  breeze  of  night, 
Fly  copper-red  on  the  sky's  quiet  blue  light. 


SOME  PARISIAN  PHASES  165 

See  how  the  sun,  e'en  on  the  brink  of  rest, 
Kisses  with  scarlet  that  carved  monarch's  crest : 
The  swallow  disappears  as  dark  draws  nigh, 
And  now  one  marks  the  sombre  bat  flit  by. 
And  the  day's  din  is  hush'd.     But  faint  and  far 
A  murmur  tells  that  Paris  sings  o'er  there. 
Who  slays  her  victims,  ends  her  tyrannies. 
And  now  dawn  robberies,  loves,  and  villainies. 

Sudden,  as  a  wild  tenor  hurls  in  air. 

E'en  at  the  dusk,  his  voice  that  rings  despair. 

His  cry  sad  and  prolonged,  hear  now  reply, 

Sharp  from  some  nook  the  Viol  of  Barbary  : 

An  air  it  twangs,  polka,  romance  you'd  call, 

In  youth  we'd  play  on  glasses  musical  : 

An  air  which,  slow  or  fast,  merry  or  sad. 

Outcasts,  grisettes,  and  actresses  makes  glad. 

'Tis  bald,  and  flat,  and  harsh,  most  horrible, 

'Twould  give  Rossini  fever,  I  know  well, 

These  wails  cut  short,  those  trills  indefinite  wrung, 

In  an  absurd  fifth-score  together  strung. 

The  notes  are  nasal,  '  c  '  must  stand  for  '  a,' 

Who  cares  !     We  weep  the  same  to  hear  them  play. 

For  now  the  spirit  borne  to  lands  of  dream 

Feels  these  old  chords  his  strength  turn  chill  in  him. 

Pity  to  hearts,  and  tears  to  eyes  are  driv'n. 

Till  we  would  fain  partake  the  joys  of  heav'n, 

And,  in  a  harmony  so  strange  and  wild, 

Where  music  with  much  chaff  is  reconciled. 

The  soul,  through  lamps  which  flash,  airs  sung  and 

played, 
Sends  organ-notes  adown  the  twilight  red  ! 
And  now  tlie  music  ends,  and  dies  all  noise, 
The  night  is  ripe  ;  and  see  Queen  Venus  poise 


i66  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

On  one  bare  limb,  beneath  the  dark  clouds  set ; 
While  the  long  street  reflects  the  flaring  jet. 
Each  star,  each  torch  grotesque  on  the  tide  throws. 
The  tide  more  black  than  velvet  dominoes  ; 
And  he  who  from  the  high  bridge-railing  sees 
Space  and  time  whirling  like  a  farthing-piece, 
A  prey  to  ominous  winds  that  rise  below, 
Thought,  hope  serene,  ambition  wild  lets  go  ; 
All  things  e'en  memory  rush  from  him  in  flight, 
And  he  is  left  with  Paris,  Seine,  and  Night. 

Weird  Trinity,  hard  portals  of  the  Shades 

*  Mene,  Tekel,  Phares,'  of  all  that  fades. 

You  are  all  three,  0  ghouls  of  wickedness. 

So  terrible  that  man  drunk  with  distress. 

With  which  your  ghostly  fingers  pierce  him  through, 

(Orestes  when  Electra  proves  untrue,) 

Before  your  hollow,  fatal  glances  quails. 

And  helpless  seeks  the  depth  where  the  heart  fails. 

Yet  all  you  three  such  jealousies  do  have 

In  sacrificing  husbands  of  the  Grave, 

That  one  scarce  knows  which  of  three  deaths  to  take, 

Or  if  he  fears  end  more  or  less  to  make 

In  the  dull  water's  gloom  of  depth  unseen. 

Than  Paris'  painted  arms,  the  world's  Queen. 

But  on  thou  runnest,  Seine,  with  mightier  force. 

Through  her  thou  drag'st  thine  ancient  serpent  course, 

Thy  miry  course,  bearing  to  refuges 

Cargoes  of  wood,  and  oil,  and  carcases. 

PAUL  VERLAINE. 
Translated  by  Ashmore  Wingate. 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 


Artists,  authors,  and  other  persons  of  more  or  less  Bo- 
hemian tastes,  many  of  them  men  of  great  renown  and  genius, 
have  ever  found  their  home  on  the  commanding  heights  of  the 
Montmartre  cliff.  .  .  .  From  her  lofty  perch  Montmartre  can 
survey  at  leisure,  and  if  needs  be  point  the  pencil  of  derision 
at  the  world  of  Paris  surging  at  her  feet ;  but  it  must  not  be 
forgotten  that  if  she  be  light-hearted  she  is  also  ever  warm- 
hearted. Her  interest  in  the  follies  of  life  is  even  surpassed 
by  her  deep  sympathy  with  those  who  are  struggling  against 
its  miseries. 

FRANK    L.    EMANUEL. 


SPRING  IN  THE  STUDENTS'  QUARTER 
Winter  is  passing,  and  the  bells 

For  ever  with  their  silver  lay 
Murmur  a  melody  that  tells 

Of  April  and  of  Easter  Day. 
High  in  sweet  air  the  light  vane  sets, 

The  weathercocks  all  southward  twirl ; 
A  sou  will  buy  her  violets 

And  make  Nini  a  happy  girl. 

The  winter  to  the  poor  was  sore, 

Counting  the  weary  winter  days, 
Watching  his  little  fire-wood  store, 

The  bitter  snow-flakes  fell  always  ; 
And  now  his  last  log  dimly  gleamed. 

Lighting  the  room  with  feeble  glare, 
Half  cinder  and  half  smoke  it  seemed 

That  the  wind  wafted  into  air. 

Pilgrims  from  ocean  and  far  isles 

See  where  the  east  is  reddening, 
The  flocks  that  fly  a  thousand  miles 

From  sunsetting  to  sunsetting  ; 
Look  up,  look  up,  behold  the  swallows. 

The  throats  that  twitter,  the  wings  that  beat 
And  on  their  song  the  summer  follows, 

And  in  the  summer  life  is  sweet. 

With  the  green  tender  buds  that  know 
The  shoot  and  sap  of  lusty  spring 

My  neighbour  of  a  year  ago 
Her  casement,  see,  is  opening ; 
169 


170  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

Through  all  the  bitter  months  that  were. 
Forth  from  her  nest  she  dared  not  flee, 

She  was  a  study  for  Boucher, 
She  now  might  sit  to  Gavarni. 

ANDREW  LANG. 
From  the  French  of  Henri  Murger. 


OF  THE  QUARTIER  LATIN 

Situated  on  the  unfashionable  side  of  the  Seine,  in  the 
same  relation  to  Paris  as  the  Borough  is  to  London,  is 
a  dense  congeries  of  narrow,  dirty,  tortuous  streets, 
that  cling  and  twist  round  the  Sorbonne  and  Pantheon 
like  mudworms  round  a  pebble  at  low  water,  and 
form  in  their  ensemble  the  venerable  Quartier  Latin. 
It  is  a  part  of  the  city  little  known  to  the  mere  weekly 
visitor  from  England,  and  yet  withal  a  most  interest- 
ing locality.  The  flaunting  Chaussee  d'Antin  and 
aristocratic  Rue  de  Rivoli  swarm  with  too  many  of  our 
own  countrymen.  .  .  .  The  frigid  respectability  and 
dilapidated  grandeur  of  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain 
reminds  us  only  of  a  French  translation  of  Fitzroy 
Square  ;  the  Quartier  St.  Antoine  is  a  mass  of  rags  and 
revolution  ;  and  the  Champs  Elysees  a  conglomeration 
of  conjurers,  girls'  schools,  Punch's  shows,  cafes,  and 
boarding-houses. 

But  the  Quartier  Latin  has  claims  upon  our  atten- 
tion and  respect  of  another  description,  for  there  is  no 
division  of  Paris  more  rich  in  historical  associations. 
Independently  of  the  interest  attached  to  the  Sor- 
bonne and  the  gloomy  crypts  of  St.  Genevieve,  nearly 
every  street  is  connected  with  some  romance  of  the 
moyen-dge  of  French  history.   In  the  monastery  of  the 


BOHEMIAN  PARIS  171 

Cordeliers,  which  formerly  stood  on  the  site  of  the 
fountain  near  the  spot  where  the  Rue  de  I'Ecole  de 
M^decine  debouches  into  the  Rue  de  I'Ancienne 
Comedie,  we  are  told  that  in  1522  a  lovely  girl  was 
discovered  in  the  garb  of  a  page,  who  had  long  waited 
upon  the  holy  fathers  in  that  capacity — they  being,  of 
course,  perfectly  unconscious  of  her  sex  ;  and  that  the 
authorities  were  ungallant  enough  to  whip  her  from 
the  convent.  Here  the  club  of  the  Cordeliers  received 
the  Marseillois  auxiliaries  previously  to  the  slaughter 
in  the  Tuileries  on  the  terrific  loth  of  August  ;  and 
here  also  the  following  summer  Marat  hved,  and  was 
assassinated  by  the  heroic  Charlotte  Corday.  Within  a 
radius  of  two  hundred  yards  from  this  spot  we  arrive 
at  the  Place  St.  Michel,  where  a  statue  was  raised  in 
the  reign  of  the  '  mad  king,'  Charles  VI.,  to  the 
memory  of  Perinet  Leclerc,  the  son  of  the  gate-keeper 
of  the  Port  St.  Germaine,  who  stole  the  keys  from 
beneath  his  father's  pillow  to  admit  the  troops  of  the 
Duke  of  Burgundy,  which  led  to  the  downfall  of  the 
partisans  of  Armagnac. 

In  the  Rue  St.  Jacques,  on  the  dreadful  eve  of  St. 
Bartholomew,  Bethune,  the  young  brother  of  Sully, 
narrowly  escaped  assassination  by  showing  a  breviary 
to  a  soldier,  which  he  had  fortunately  caught  up  in  the 
confusion  of  the  massacre.  In  the  adjacent  Rue  de  la 
Harpe  and  Cloistres  de  St.  Benoist,  this  book  again 
saved  him  ;  and,  after  lying  concealed  for  three  daj^ 
in  the  College  de  Bourgogne  ...  he  was  liberated  and 
},'ardoned,  upon  consenting  to  go  to  mass.  The  valiant 
Phillip  de  Mornay  at  the  same  time  escaped  from  his 
house  in  the  Rue  St.  Jacques,  whilst  it  was  actually  in 
possession  of  the  mob,  who  were  pillaging  it,  although 
the  landlord  was  a  Catholic.    Nor  should  we  omit  to 


172  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

mention  that  at  a  later  date,  in  the  CarmeHte  convent 
which  stood  formerly  in  the  Rue  d'Enfer,  the  beautiful 
and  penitent  Louise  de  la  Valliere  retired  in  1680, 
where  also,  after  thirty  years  of  pious  seclusion  and 
regret,  she  died. 

But  there  is  little  now  left  to  recall  those  bygone 
events  ;  for  the  buildings  have  been  razed,  and  streets 
of  tall,  dirty  houses  erected  on  the  spots  they  occu- 
pied, if  we  except  the  time-hallowed  walls  of  the 
Hotel  de  Cluny  in  the  Rue  des  Mathurins,  which  alone 
enclose  tangible  memorials  of  the  Quartier  Latin  in 
the  olden  time.  And  although  the  majority  of  sight- 
seekers  at  Paris  know  as  little  about  the  venerable 
edifice  as  a  West-End  exquisite  does  of  Ratcliff  High- 
way, yet  it  is  well  worthy  of  inspection  :  with  its  fine 
Gothic  architecture,  its  fluted  and  embossed  armour, 
its  curiously-fashioned  windows  breaking  the  sun- 
beams into  a  hundred  fantastic  forms  upon  the 
polished  oaken  boards,  for  daring  to  intrude  where  all 
should  be  dim  and  mysterious  ;  and  its  domestic 
relics  of  other  days,  which  call  up  with  mute  and 
affecting  eloquence  indistinct  imaginings  of  those  who 
made  a  home  of  that  old  mansion,  whose  very  names 
have  now  passed  away  even  from  the  ancient 
chronicles. 

But  we  will  not  farther  rout  up  the  mouldering 
archives.  .  .  .  The  Quartier  Latin  derives  its  interest 
from  other  sources.  One-half  of  the  promoters  of  the 
real  fun  and  gaiety  of  Paris  reside  within  its  limits. 
In  a  word,  it  is  the  abode — hive  would  be  a  better 
term,  were  it  not  for  the  ideas  of  industry  connected 
with  that  straw  tenement — of  nearly  all  the  students 
of  law  and  medicine  in  Paris  ;  and  very  fortunate 
indeed  is  it  that  they  have  a  quartier  to  themselves,  or 


BOHEMIAN  PARIS  173 

the  walls  of  the  city  would  not  contain  them,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  iron  gates  at  the  barriers.  They  are  all 
joyousncss  and  hilarity  ;  and  their  hearts  are  as  light 
as  the  summer  breeze  that  sweeps  over  the  pleasant 
foliage  of  the  Luxembourg  gardens,  endeared  to  their 
memory  by  so  many  flirtations  on  the  stone  benches. 
And  the  French  students  are  not  exclusive  in  their 
love-making,  for  they  pay  their  court  alike  to  all. 
The  rosy  Cauchoise  in  her  high  lace  cap — the  sprightly 
Lyonnaise — the  belle  petite  Beige — with  the  laughing, 
pouting,  constant,  coquetting  g^isette — the  grisctte — 
each  in  turn  receives  their  protestations  of  an  eternal 
love  for  the  winter  course  of  lectures,  and  equally  each 
in  turn  jilts  them.  But  they  feel  no  very  bitter  pang 
when  their  professions  are  laughed  at.  Their  love  is  as 
light  as  their  hearts  ;  and  when  they  lose  the  affection- 
ate glance  of  one  pair  of  soft  eyes,  they  endeavour, 
without  loss  of  time,  to  rekindle  the  flame,  which 
is  subdued  and  transient  as  the  ignition  of  a 
pneumatic  lamp,  or  a  German  tinder  allumette,  in 
another. 

ALBERT   SMITH. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  BOUILLABAISSE 

A  STREET  there  is  in  Paris  famous 

For  which  no  rhyme  our  language  yields. 
Rue  Neuve  des  Pelits  Champs  its  name  is — 

The  New  Street  of  the  Little  Fields. 
And  here's  an  inn,  not  rich  and  splendid. 

But  still  in  comfortable  case  ; 
The  which  in  youth  oft  I  attended. 

To  eat  a  bowl  of  Bouillabaisse. 


174  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

This  Bouillabaisse  a  noble  dish  is — • 

A  sort  of  soup,  or  broth,  or  brew, 
Or  hotchpotch  of  all  sorts  of  fishes. 

That  Greenwich  nev^er  could  outdo  ; 
Green  herbs,  red  peppers,  mussels,  saffron, 

Soles,  onions,  garlic,  roach,  and  dace  : 
All  these  you  eat  at  Terre's  tavern, 

In  that  one  dish  of  Bouillabaisse. 

Indeed,  a  rich  and  savoury  stew  'tis  ; 

And  true  philosophers,  methinks. 
Who  love  all  sorts  of  natural  beauties. 

Should  love  good  victuals  and  good  drinks. 
And  Cordelier  or  Benedictine 

Might  gladly,  sure,  his  lot  embrace. 
Nor  find  a  fast-day  too  afflicting. 

Which  served  him  up  a  Bouillabaisse. 

I  wonder  if  the  house  still  there  is  ? 

Yes,  here  the  lamp  is.'^as  before  ; 
The  smiling  red-cheeked  ecaillere  is 

StiU  opening  oysters  at  the  door. 
Is  Terre  still  alive  and  able  ? 

I  recollect  his  droll  grimace  : 
He'd  come  and  smile  before  your  table. 

And  hope  you  liked  your  Bouillabaisse, 

We  enter — nothing's  changed  or  older. 

'  How's  Monsieur  Terre,  waiter,  pray  ?' 
The  waiter  stares,  and  shrugs  his  shoulder — 

'  Monsieur  is  dead  this  many  a  day.' 
'  It  is  the  lot  of  saint  and  sinner. 

So  honest  Terre's  run  his  race.' 
'  What  will  Monsieur  require  for  dinner  ?' 

'  Say,  do  you  still  cook  Bouillabaisse  ?' 


BOHEMIAN  PARIS  175 

*  Oh,  oui,  Monsieur,'  's  the  waiter's  answer  ; 

'  Quel  vin  monsieur  desire-t-il  ?' 
'  Tell  me  a  good  one.' — '  That  I  can,  Sir  : 

The  Chambertin  with  yellow  seal.' 
'  So  Terre's  gone,'  I  say,  and  sink  in 

My  old  accustom'd  corner  place  ; 
'  He's  done  with  feasting  and  with  drinking. 

With  Burgundy  and  Bouillabaisse.' 

My  old  accustom'd  corner  here  is. 

The  table  still  is  in  the  nook  ; 
Ah  !   vanish' d  many  a  busy  year  is 

This  well-known  chair  since  last  I  took. 
When  first  I  saw  ye,  cari  Inoghi, 

I'd  scarce  a  beard  upon  my  face, 
And  now  a  grizzled,  grim  old  fogey, 

I  sit  and  wait  for  Bouillabaisse. 

Where  are  you,  old  companions  trusty 

Of  early  day  here  met  to  dine  ? 
Come,  waiter  !  quick,  a  flagon  crusty, — 

I'll  pledge  them  in  the  good  old  wine. 
The  kind  old  voices  and  old  faces 

My  memory  can  quick  retrace  ; 
Around  the  board  they  take  their  places 

And  share  the  wine  and  Bouillabaisse. 

There's  Jack  has  made  a  wondrous  marriage  ; 

There's  laughing  Tom  is  laughing  yet ; 
There's  brave  Augustus  drives  his  carriage  ; 

There's  poor  old  Fred  in  the  Gazette , 
On  James's  head  the  grass  is  growing: 

Good  Lord  !  the  world  has  wagged  apace 
Since  here  we  set  the  claret  flowing, 

And  drank,  and  ate  the  Bouillabaisse. 


176  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

Ah  me  !   how  quick  the  days  are  flitting  ! 

I  mind  me  of  a  time  that's  gone, 
When  here  I'd  sit,  as  now  I'm  sitting, 

In  this  same  place — but  not  alone. 
A  fair  young  form  was  nestled  near  me, 

A  dear,  dear  face  looked  fondly  up. 
And  sweetly  spoke  and  smiled  to  cheer  me 

— There's  no  one  now  to  share  my  cup. 

I  drink  it  as  the  Fates  ordain  it. 

Come,  fill  it,  and  have  done  with  rhymes  : 
Fill  up  the  lonely  glass,  and  drain  it 

In  memory  of  dear  old  times. 
Welcome  the  wine,  whate'er  the  seal  is  ', 

And  sit  you  down  and  say  your  grace 
With  thankful  heart,  whate'er  the  meal  is. 

— Here  comes  the  smoking  Bouillabaisse  ! 

WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY. 

A  BOHEMIAN  CAFE 

GuSTAVE  CoLLiNE,  the  great  philosopher ;  Marcel,  the 
great  painter ;  Schaunard,  the  great  musician  ;  and 
Rodolphe,  the  great  poet  (as  they  called  one  another), 
regularly  frequented  the  Momus  Cafe,  where  they  were 
surnamed  '  the  Four  Musqueteers,'  because  they  were 
always  seen  together.  In  fact,  they  came  together, 
went  away  together,  played  together,  and  sometimes 
didn't  pay  their  shot  together,  with  a  unison  worthy 
of  the  best  orchestra. 

They  chose  to  meet  in  a  room  where  forty  people 
might  have  been  accommodated,  but  they  were 
usually  there  alone,  inasmuch  as  they  had  rendered 
the  place  uninhabitable  by  its  ordinary  frequenters. 


BOHEMIAN  PARIS  177 

The  chance  customer  who  risked  himself  in  this  den 
became,  from  the  moment  of  his  entrance,  the  victim 
of  the  terrible  four,  and  in  most  cases  made  his  escape 
without  finishing  his  newspaper  and  cup  of  coffee, 
seasoned  as  they  were  by  unheard-of  maxims  on  art, 
sentiment,  and  political  economy.  The  conversation 
of  the  four  comrades  was  of  such  a  nature  that  the 
waiter  who  served  them  had  become  an  idiot  in  the 
prime  of  his  life.  .  .  . 

It  was  Christmas  Eve.  The  four  friends  came  to  the 
cafe,  accompanied  by  their  friends  of  the  other  sex. 
There  was  Marcel's  Musette  ;  Rodolphe's  new  flame, 
Mimi,  a  lovely  creature  with  a  voice  like  a  pair  of 
cymbals  ;  and  Schaunard's  idol,  Phemie  Teinturicre. 
.  .  .  After  the  coffee,  which  was  on  this  great  occasion 
escorted  by  a  regiment  of  small  glasses  of  brandy,  they 
called  for  punch.  The  waiter  was  so  little  accustomed 
to  the  order,  that  they  had  to  repeat  it  twice.  Phemie, 
who  had  never  been  to  such  a  place  before,  seemed  in  a 
state  of  ecstasy  at  drinking  out  of  glasses  with  feet. 
Marcel  was  quarrelling  with  Musette  about  a  new 
bonnet.  .  .  .  Mimi  and  Rodolj^he,  who  were  in  their 
honeymoon,  carried  on  a  silent  conv^ersation.  ...  As  to 
Colline,  he  went  about  from  one  to  the  other,  distribu- 
ting among  them  all  the  polite  and  ornamental  phrases 
which  he  had  picked  up  in  the  '  Muses'  Almanack.' 

While  this  joyous  company  was  thus  abandoning 
itself  to  sport  and  laughter,  a  stranger  at  the  bottom 
of  the  room,  who  occupied  a  table  by  himself,  was 
observing  with  extraordinary  attention  the  animated 
scene  before  him.  For  a  fortnight  or  thereabout,  he 
had  come  thus  every  night,  being  the  only  customer 
who  could  stand  the  terrible  row  which  the  club  made. 
The  boldest  pleasantries  had  failed  to  move  him  ;  he 

12 


178  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

would  remain  all  the  evening,  smoking  his  pipe  with 
mathematical  regularity,  his  eyes  fixed  as  if  watching 
a  treasure,  and  his  ears  open  to  all  that  was  said  around 
him.  As  to  his  other  qualities,  he  seemed  quiet  and 
well-off,  for  he  possessed  a  watch  with  a  gold  chain  ; 
and  one  day,  Marcel,  meeting  him  at  the  bar,  caught 
him  in  the  act  of  changing  a  louis  to  pay  his  score. 
From  that  moment,  the  four  friends  designated  him 
by  the  name  of  '  The  Capitalist.' 

Suddenly  Schaunard,  who  had  very  good  eyes, 
remarked  that  the  glasses  were  empty, 

'  Yes,'  exclaimed  Rodolphe  ;  '  and  this  is  Christmas 
Eve  !  We  are  good  Christians,  and  ought  to  have 
something  extra.' 

'  Yes,  indeed,'  added  Marcel ;  '  let's  call  for  some- 
thing supernatural." 

'  Colline,'  continued  Rodolphe,  '  ring  a  little  for 
the  waiter.  .  ,  .' 

'  Waiter  !'  quoth  Colline  gravely,  '  bring  us  all  that 
is  requisite  for  a  good  supper.' 

The  waiter  turned  all  the  colours  of  the  rainbow. 
He  descended  slowly  to  the  bar,  and  informed  his 
master  of  the  extraordinary  orders  he  had  received. 

The  landlord  took  it  for  a  joke  ;  but  on  a  new  sum- 
mons from  the  bell,  he  ascended  himself  and  addressed 
Colline,  for  whom  he  had  a  certain  respect.  Colline 
explained  to  him  that  they  wished  to  see  Christmas  in 
at  his  house,  and  that  he  would  oblige  them  by  serving 
what  they  had  asked  for.  Momus  made  no  answer, 
backed  out,  twisting  his  napkin.  For  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  he  held  a  consultation  with  his  wife,  who,  thanks 
to  her  liberal  education  at  the  St.  Denis  Convent,  for- 
tunately had  a  weakness  for  arts  and  letters,  and 
advised  him  to  serve  the  supper. 


BOHEMIAN  PARIS  179 

'  To  be  sure,'  said  the  landlord,  '  they  /nay  have 
money  for  once,  by  chance.' 

So  he  told  the  waiter  to  take  up  whatever  they  asked 
for,  and  then  plunged  into  a  game  of  piquet  with  an 
old  customer.     Fatal  imprudence  ! 

From  ten  to  twelve  the  waiter  did  nothing  but  run 
up  and  down  stairs.  Every  moment  he  was  asked  for 
something  more.  Musette  would  eat  English-fashion, 
and  change  her  fork  at  every  mouthful.  Mimi  drank 
all  sorts  of  wines  in  all  sort  of  glasses.  Schaunard  had 
a  quenchless  Sahara  in  his  throat.  .  ,  . 

The  stranger  regarded  the  scene  with  grave  curiosity ; 
from  time  to  time  he  opened  his  mouth  as  if  for  a 
smile.  .  .  . 

At  a  quarter  before  twelve  the  bill  was  sent  up.  It 
amounted  to  the  enormous  sum  of  twenty-five  francs 
and  three-quarters. 

'  Come,'  said  Marcel,  '  we  will  draw  lots  for  who 
shall  go  and  diplomatize  with  our  host.  It  is  getting 
serious.'  They  took  a  set  of  dominoes;  the  higliest  was 
to  go. 

Unluckily,  the  lot  fell  upon  Schaunard,  who  was  an 
excellent  virtuoso,  but  a  very  bad  ambassador.  He 
arrived,  too,  at  the  bar  just  as  the  landlord  had  lost  his 
third  game.  Momus  was  in  a  fearful  bad  humour,  and 
at  Schaunard's  first  words,  broke  out  into  a  violent 
rage.  Schaunard  was  a  good  musician,  but  he  had  an 
indifferent  temper,  and  he  replied  by  a  double  dis- 
charge of  slang.  .  .  . 

At  this  point,  the  stranger  abandoned  his  impassible 
attitude  ;  gradually  he  rose,  made  a  step  forward,  then 
another,  and  walked  as  an  ordinary  man  might  do  ;  he 
approached  the  landlord,  took  him  aside,  and  spoke  to 
him  in  a  low  tone.    Rodolphe  and  Marcel  followed  him 

12  -2 


iSo  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

with  their  eyes.  At  length,  the  host  went  out  saying 
to  the  stranger  : 

'  Certainly,  I  consent,  Monsieur  Barbemuche — cer- 
tainl}'.   Arrange  it  with  them  yourself.' 

Monsieur  Barbemuche  returned  to  his  table  to  take 
his  hat ;  put  it  on,  turned  round  to  the  right,  and  in 
three  steps  came  close  to  Rodolphe  and  Marcel ;  took 
off  his  hat,  bowed.  .  .  . 

'  Gentlemen,  excuse  the  liberty  I  am  about  to  take. 
For  a  long  time  I  have  been  burning  with  desire  to 
make  your  acquaintance,  but  have  never,  till  now, 
found  a  favourable  opportunity.  Will  you  allow  me  to 
seize  the  present  one  ?  .  .  .  I  am  a  disciple  of  the  fine 
arts  like  yourselves.  So  far  as  I  have  been  able  to 
judge  from  what  I  have  heard  of  your  conversation, 
our  tastes  are  the  same.  I  have  a  most  eager  desire  to 
be  a  friend  of  yours,  and  to  be  able  to  find  you  here 
every  night.  The  landlord  is  a  brute  ;  but  I  said  a 
word  to  him,  and  you  are  quite  free  to  go.  I  trust  you 
will  not  refuse  me  the  opportunity  of  finding  you  here 
again,  by  accepting  this  slight  service.' 

A  blush  of  indignation  mounted  to  Schaunard's  face. 
'  He  is  speculating  on  our  condition,'  said  he  ;  '  we  can- 
not accept.  He  has  paid  our  bill ;  I  will  play  him  at 
billiards  for  the  twenty- five  francs,  and  give  him  points. ' 

Barbemuche  accepted  the  proposition,  and  had  the 
good  sense  to  lose.  This  gained  him  the  esteem  of 
the  party.  They  broke  up  with  the  understanding  that 
they  were  to  meet  next  day. 

'  Now,'  said  Schaunard,  '  our  dignity  is  saved  ;  we 
owe  him  nothing.' 

'  We  can  almost  ask  him  for  another  supper,'  said 
Colline.  henri  murger. 

Translated  by  W.  E.  Goulden. 


BOHEMIAN  PARIS  i8i 

THE  ARTIST  OF  THE  PAYS  LATIN 
In  a  Letter  to  Mr.  Macgilp,  of  London 

The  life  of  the  young  artist  here  is  the  easiest,  merriest, 
dirtiest  existence  possible.  He  comes  to  Paris,  prob- 
ably at  sixteen,  from  his  province  ;  his  parents  settle 
forty  pounds  a  year  on  him,  and  pay  his  master  ;  he 
establishes  himself  in  the  Pays  Latin,  or  in  the  new 
quarter  of  Notre  Dame  de  Lorette  (which  is  peopled 
with  painters)  ;  he  arrives  at  his  atelier  at  a  tolerably 
early  hour,  and  labours  among  a  score  of  comjianionL; 
as  merry  and  poor  as  himself.  Each  gentleman  has  his 
favourite  tobacco-pipe  ;  and  the  pictures  are  painted 
in  the  midst  of  a  cloud  of  smoke,  and  a  din  of  puns  and 
choice  French  slang,  and  a  roar  of  choruses,  of  which 
no  one  can  form  an  idea  who  has  not  been  present  at 
such  an  assembly. 

You  see  here  every  variety  of  coiffure  that  has  ever 
been  known.  Some  young  men  of  genius  have  ringlets 
hanging  over  their  shoulders — you  may  smell  the 
tobacco  with  which  they  are  scented  across  the  street ; 
some  have  straight  locks,  black,  oily,  and  redundant ; 
some  have  tonpeis  in  the  famous  Louis-Philippe 
fashion  ;  some  are  cropped  close  ;  some  have  adopted 
the  present  [1840]  mode — which  he  who  would  follow 
must,  in  order  to  do  so,  part  his  hair  in  the  middle, 
grease  it  with  grease,  and  gum  it  with  gum,  and  iron 
it  flat  down  over  his  ears  ;  when  arrived  at  the  ears, 
you  take  the  tongs  and  make  a  couple  of  ranges  of 
curls  close  round  the  whole  head, — such  curls  as  you 
may  see  under  a  gilt  three-cornered  hat,  and  in  her 
Britannic  Majesty's  coachman's  state  wig. 

This  is  the  last  fashion.  As  for  the  beards  there  is  no 


i82  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

end  to  them  ;  all  my  friends  the  artists  have  beards 
who  can  raise  them  ;  and  Nature,  though  she  has 
rather  stinted  the  bodies  and  limbs  of  the  French 
nation,  has  been  very  liberal  to  them  of  hair.  Fancy 
these  heads  and  beards  under  all  sorts  of  caps — Chinese 
caps,  Mandarin  caps,  Greek  skull-caps,  English 
jockey-caps,  Russian  or  Kuzzilbash  caps,  Middle-Age 
caps  (such  as  are  called,  in  heraldry,  caps  of  mainten- 
ance), Spanish  nets,  and  striped  worsted  nightcaps. 
Fancy  all  the  jackets  you  have  ever  seen,  and  you  have 
before  you,  as  well  as  pen  can  describe,  the  costumes 
of  these  indescribable  Frenchmen. 

In  this  company  and  costume  the  French  student 
of  art  passes  his  days  and  acquires  knowledge  ;  how  he 
passes  his  evenings,  at  what  theatres,  at  what  guin- 
guettes  . .  .  there  is  no  need  to  say  ;  but  I  knew  one  who 
pawned  his  coat  to  go  to  a  carnival  ball  and  walked 
abroad  cheerfully  in  his  blouse  for  six  weeks,  until  he 
could  redeem  the  absent  garment. 

WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY. 

'LITTLE  BILLEE'   IN  PARIS 

It  was  a  fine,  sunny,  showery  day  in  April. 

The  big  studio  window  was  open  at  the  top,  and  let 
in  a  pleasant  breeze  from  the  north-west.  Things  were 
beginning  to  look  shipshape  at  last.  The  big  piano,  a 
semi-grand  by  Broadwood  .  .  .  lay,  freshly  tuned, 
alongside  the  eastern  wall ;  on  the  wall  opposite  was  a 
panoply  of  foils,  masks,  and  boxing-gloves. 

A  trapeze,  a  knotted  rope,  and  two  parallel  cords, 
supporting  each  a  ring,  depended  from  a  huge  beam  in 
the  ceihng.  The  walls  were  of  the  usual  dull  red,  re- 
lieved by  plaster  casts  of  arms  and  legs  and  hands  and 


BOHEMIAN  PARIS  183 

feet  ;  and  Dante's  mask,  and  Michael  Angelo's  alto- 
relievo  of  Leda  and  the  swan,  and  a  centaur  and 
Lapith  from  the  Elgin  Marbles — on  none  of  these  had 
the  dust  as  yet  had  time  to  settle. 

There  were  also  studies  in  oil  from  the  nude  ;  copies 
of  Titian,  Rembrandt,  Velasquez,  Rubens,  Tintoret, 
Leonardo  da  Vinci — none  of  the  school  of  Botticelli, 
Mantegna,  and  Co. — a  firm  whose  merits  had  not  as 
yet  been  revealed  to  the  many. 

Along  the  walls,  at  a  great  height,  ran  a  broad  shelf, 
on  which  were  other  casts  in  plaster,  terra-cotta,  imita- 
tion bronze  :  a  little  Theseus,  a  little  Venus  of  Milo, 
a  httle  Discobolus  ;  a  little  flayed  man  threatening 
high  heaven  (an  act  that  seemed  almost  pardonable 
under  the  circumstances  !)  ;  a  lion  and  a  boar  by 
Barye  ;  an  anatomical  figure  of  a  horse,  with  only  one 
leg  left  and  no  ears  ;  a  horse's  head  from  the  pediment 
of  the  Parthenon,  earless  also  ;  and  the  bust  of  Clytie, 
with  her  beautiful  low  brow,  her  sweet  wan  gaze,  and 
the  ineffable  forward  shrug  of  her  dear  shoulders  that 
makes  her  bosom  as  a  nest,  a  rest,  a  pillow,  a  refuge— 
the  likeness  of  a  thing  to  be  loved  and  desired  for  ever, 
and  sought  for  and  wrought  for  and  fought  for  by 
generation  after  generation  of  the  sons  of  men.  .  .  . 

On  the  floor,  which  had  been  stained  and  waxed  at 
consideraljle  cost,  lay  two  cheetah-skins  and  a  large 
Persian  praying  rug.  One  half  of  it,  however  (under 
the  trapeze  and  at  the  end  farthest  from  the  window, 
beyond  the  model  throne),  was  covered  with  coarse 
matting,  that  one  might  fence  or  box  without  slipping 
down  and  splitting  one's  self  in  two,  or  fall  without 
breaking  any  bones. 

Two  other  windows  of  the  usual  Frencli  size  and 
pattern,  with  shutters  to  them  and  heavy  curtains  of 


i84  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

baize,  opened  east  and  west,  to  let  in  dawn  or  sunset, 
as  the  case  might  be,  or  haply  keep  them  out.  And 
there  were  alcoves,  recesses,  irregularities,  odd  little 
nooks  and  corners,  to  be  filled  up  as  time  wore  on  with 
endless  personal  nick-nacks,  bibelots,  private  proper- 
ties and  acquisitions — things  that  make  a  place  genial, 
homelike,  and  good  to  remember,  and  sweet  to  muse 
upon  (with  fond  regret)  in  after  years.  .  .  . 

Kneeling  on  the  divan,  with  his  elbow  on  the 
window-sill,  was  .  .  .  '  Little  Billee.' ...  He  had  pulled 
down  the  green  baize  blind,  and  was  looking  over  the 
roofs  and  chimney-pots  of  Paris  and  all  about  with  all 
his  eyes,  munching  the  while.  ...  As  Little  Billee 
munched  he  also  gazed  at  the  busy  place  below — the 
Place  St.  Anatole  des  Arts— at  the  old  houses  opposite, 
some  of  which  were  being  pulled  down,  no  doubt  lest 
they  should  fall  of  their  own  sweet  will.  In  the  gaps 
between  he  would  see  discoloured,  old,  cracked,  dingy 
walls,  with  mysterious  windows  and  rusty  iron  bal- 
conies of  great  antiquity — sights  that  set  him  dream- 
ing dreams  of  mediaeval  French  love  and  wickedness 
and  crime,  bygone  mysteries  of  Paris  ! 

One  gap  went  right  through  the  block,  and  gave  him 
a  glimpse  of  the  river,  the  '  Cite,'  and  the  ominous  old 
Morgue  ;  a  little  to  the  right  rose  the  grey  towers  of 
Notre  Dame  de  Paris  into  the  chequered  April  sky. 
Indeed,  the  top  of  nearly  all  Paris  lay  before  him  with 
a  little  stretch  of  the  imagination  on  his  part  ;  and  he 
gazed  with  a  sense  of  novelty,  an  interest  and  a 
pleasure  for  which  he  could  not  have  found  any  ex- 
pression in  mere  language. 

Paris  !  Paris  ! !  Paris  ! ! ! 

The  very  name  had  always  been  one  to  conjure  with, 
whether  he  thought  of  it  as  a  mere  sound  on  the  lips 


BOHEMIAN  PARIS  1S5 

and  in  the  ear,  or  as  a  magical  wTitten  or  printed  word 
for  the  eye.  And  here  was  the  thing  itself  at  last,  and 
he,  he  himself,  ipsissimiis,  in  the  very  heart  of  it,  to 
live  there  and  learn  there  as  long  as  he  liked,  and  make 
himself  the  great  artist  he  longed  to  be.  .  .  . 

He  looked  a  great  deal  out  of  the  Louvre  windows, 
where  there  was  much  to  be  seen  :  more  Paris,  for  in- 
stance— Paris,  of  which  he  could  never  have  enough. 

GEORGE    DU   MAURIER. 


CHARACTERISTICS  OF  THE  LATIN  QUARTER 

Paris. 

October,  1906. 

We  are  surprised  ourselves  at  feeling  so  much  at  home 
in  Paris.  We  move  about  easily,  and  have  had  no 
trouble  in  mastering  the  general  '  hang  '  or  lie  of  the 
city.  I  attribute  this  in  a  great  measure  to  the  good 
sense  of  the  river  Seine  in  flowing  westward  to  the  sea. 
.  .  .  We  have  visited  London  ten  times  for  every 
sojourn  in  Paris,  and  yet  London  has  always  been,  and 
still  remains  a  labyrinth,  a  maze.  It  is  the  Thames  that 
confuses  us  ;  it  persists  in  flowing  in  the  wrong  direc- 
tion, disturbing  every  point  of  our  compass.  Here  in 
Paris,  there  is  no  such  muddle.  .  .  . 

We  live  on  the  south  side  of  the  river,  in  the  homely 
district  known  as  The  Quarter.  There  be  many 
quarters  in  Paris — more  than  fractions  allow — but  this 
one  alone  is  The  Quarter,  the  Latin  Quarter  of  song  and 
story.  Here  are  the  Lniversities  and  the  Art  Schools  ; 
and  here,  from  all  the  quarters  of  the  globe,  young  men 
and  maidens  gather  ;  to  sit  at  the  feet  of  all  sorts  of 
masters,  and  '  to  follow  the  gleam.'  The  Sorbonue 
Lectures  and  Classes  do  not  begin  for  a  week  or  two 


i86  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

yet ;  but  most  of  the  Art  students  are  back  to  their 
work — and  to  their  play.  A  group  of  these  boys  in 
their  working  overalls  swooped  down  our  street  yester- 
day, with  their  faces  decorated  as  for  the  war  path  in 
traditional  Red  Indian  style.  Their  appearance  would 
have  blocked  the  traffic  at  home,  but  no  serious  atten- 
tion was  paid  to  them  here.  It  was  just  their  fun ;  and 
probably  considered  less  eccentric  than  it  would  be  in 
Scotland  for  a  divinity  student  to  dispense  with  his 
waistcoat,  and  sport  a  cummerbund.  Jules  by  way  of 
a  joke  decorated  the  face  of  Alphonse  and  dared  him 
to  go  forth  to  dejeilner  with  this  embellishment. 
Alphonse  has  no  objections,  he  thinks  the  colour 
scheme  is  charming ;  and  immediately,  the  Tom 
Sawyer  law  is  in  operation,  and  all  the  boys  are 
ashamed  of  their  colourless  cheeks,  and  decline  to 
appear  conspicuous  beside  Alphonse.  The  thing  is 
done  ;  and  in  a  day  or  two  they  will  invent,  and  indulge 
in  some  other  mild  pleasantry. 

These  little  follies  of  the  students  of  the  Latin 
Quarter  are  characteristic  of  the  temperament  of  the 
Latin  nations.  The  students  are  frequently  at  this 
game  ;  but  several  times  in  the  course  of  the  year,  not 
only  the  boys,  but  their  parents  as  weU — all  Paris  in 
fact — give  the  reins  to  innocent  frivohty,  and  enjoy 
the  merriest,  maddest  days. 

'  THE   ROWLEY  LETTERS.' 


A   FEW   PARISIAN   PORTRAITS 


There  is  the  spirit  of  towns  ;  each  town  has  a  certain  indi- 
viducility,  each  has  a  spirit  of  its  own  derived  from  its  his- 
toric past,  and  from  its  occupations  in  the  present.  .  .  .  Paris 
has  maintained  the  light  of  art  in  France.  Witliout  Paris 
contemporary  France  would  have  a  very  small  place  in 
artistic  Europe ;  with  Paris  it  still  maintains,  though  against 
powerful  rivals,  a  leadership.  London  has  not  any  com- 
parable influence.  .  .  .  The  Parisian  nation  has  not  the  same 
characteristics  as  the  nation  of  Londoners.  The  distinguishing 
character  of  London  is  to  be,  not  local,  but  world-wide  ;  the 
character  of  Paris  is  to  be  as  local  as  ancient  Athens,  and  as 
contemptuous  of  all  that  lies  outside. 

PHILIP    GILBERT    HAMERTON. 


THE  GRISETTE 

RiGOLETTE,  the  grisette,  or  work-girl,  is  a  true  rViild  of 
Paris — preferring  noise  to  solitude,  movement  to 
repose,  the  harsh  and  resounding  harmony  of  the 
orchestra  at  the  balls  of  the  Chartreuse,  or  of  the 
Colysee,  to  the  soft  murmur  of  the  winds,  the  waters, 
and  the  foliage  ;  the  deafening  noise  of  the  streets  of 
Paris,  to  the  solitude  of  the  country  ;  the  glare  of  fire- 
works, the  glitter  of  a  ball,  the  noise  of  rockets,  to  the 
serenity  of  a  fine  night,  with  stars,  and  darkness,  and 
silence. 

Alas,  yes — the  good  girl  frankly  prefers  the  streets 
of  the  capital,  to  the  verdure  of  the  flowery  meadows  ; 
its  scorching  pavements  to  the  fresh  and  velvet  moss 
of  the  wood-paths  perfumed  with  violets ;  the  suffo- 
cating dust  of  the  Barriers  or  the  Boulevards  to  the 
waving  of  golden  corn,  enamelled  with  the  scarlet 
flowers  of  the  wild  poppy  and  azure  of  the  bluebells. 

Rigolette  only  leaves  her  room  on  Sundays ;  and 
each  morning  to  lay  in  her  provision  of  chickweed, 
bread,  milk,  and  hempsccd,  for  herself  and  her  two 
birds.     But  she  lives  in  Paris. 

She  had  been  in  despair  to  have  lived  elsewhere  than 
in  the  capital. 

Another  anomaly  :  notwithstanding  this  taste  for 
Parisian  pleasures — notwithstanding  the  liberty,  or 
rather,  the  state  of  abandonment  in  which  she  finds 
herself,  being  alone  in  the  world — notwithstanding  the 
rigid  economy  which  she  is  obliged  to  use  in  her 

189 


igo  THE  chap:^  of  paris 

smallest  expenses,  in  order  to  live  on  thirty  sous  a 
day;  notwithstandi.Tig  the  most  piquant,  the  most 
mischievous,  the  m.ost  adorable  little  face  in  the  world, 
never  does  Rigo'iette  choose  a  sweetheart — we  will  not 
say  lover. 

The  ^y^sette,  let  us  say,  only  chooses  her  sweethearts 
in  her  own  class ;  that  is  to  say,  only  chooses  her 
neighbours. 

Rigolette  is  hardly  eighteen,  perhaps  rather  small, 
but  so  gracefully  shaped,  so  finely  modelled,  so  well 
turned,  that  her  size  responds  well  to  her  bearing,  at 
once  bold  and  modest ;  one  inch  more  in  height  would 
have  caused  her  to  lose  much  of  the  gracious  ensemble  ; 
the  movement  of  her  small  feet,  always  encased  in 
high  boots  of  black  cloth,  with  rather  thick  soles,  re- 
caUs  to  mind  the  coquettish  light  and  discreet  step  of 
the  quail. 

She  does  not  appear  to  walk,  she  merely  touches 
the  pavement ;  she  slides  rapidly  on  its  surface. 

This  walk,  peculiar  to  the  grisette,  ought  to  be  at- 
tributed, without  doubt,  to  three  causes.  To  her 
desire  to  be  thought  handsome  ;  to  her  fear  of  admira- 
tion ;  to  the  desire  that  she  always  has  to  lose  as  little 
time  as  possible  in  her  peregrinations.  During  the 
summer  she  works  near  the  open  window,  half  veiled 
by  a  verdant  curtain  of  sweet  peas  and  orange  nas- 
turtiums ;  in  the  winter  at  the  corner  other  little  stove, 
at  the  soft  light  of  her  lamp. 

Then  each  Sunday  she  varies  this  laborious  life  with 
a  day  of  innocent  pleasures,  partaken  with  a  neighbour 
as  young,  gay,  thoughtless  as  herself.  On  Monday  she 
resumes  her  labours,  thinking  on  pleasures  past  and 
to  come. 

EUGENE   SUE. 


A  FEW  PARISIAN  PORTRAITS  191 

JEAN  DE  PARIS 

Laugh  and  sing,  dance  and  bound, 
Take  thy  gloves,  the  world  rui.  round  ; 
But,  whate'er  thy  purse  contain. 
To  thy  Paris  come  again  ! 

Paris  Jean,  Paris  Jean, 

To  thy  Paris  haste  again  ! 

As  ancient  chronicles  record, 
His  sabre  Jean  at  once  would  bare, 
Should  thoughtless  fools,  with  hardy  word, 
Their  towns  with  Paris  town  compare. 

He  would  swear  by  the  Powers, 

In  prose  or  in  verse. 

Old  Notre  Dame's  towers 

Beat  the  whole  universe  ! 

If  Jean  the  wall  of  China  clear'd, 

Or  kiss'd  some  mandarin's  fair  dame  ; 

At  monkey-like  celestials  jeer'd. 

Or  home  to  France,  rich  nabob  came  ; 

How  delightful  the  glory, 

Oft  dream'd  of  with  pride, 

To  relate  each  long  story 

By  a  Paris  fireside  ! 

'  I  must  have  gold,  and  quickly  too  !' 
l^anding  in  far  Peru,  Jean  said. 
They  wished  to  keep  him  in  Peru  : — 
*  What  !  think  ye  I  shall  stoop  to  trade  ? 

Away  with  your  pelf ! 

Ten  fair  sweethearts  I  own ; 

I  prefer  to  your  wealth 

An  almshouse  at  home  1' 


192  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

A  strapping  soldier,  Jean  by  turns 
For  Saladin  and  Christian  fights  ; 
Attacks,  storms,  pillages,  and  burns ; 
Then  home  to  darling  Paris  writes  : 

'  My  glory  from  the  Louvre 

To  the  Boulevards  tell, 

Let  them  six  sous  apiece 

There  the  busts  of  me  sell !' 

A  Persian  queen,  as  Jean  maintains, 
Once  said,  '  Dear  youth,  my  spouse  wilt  be  ?' 
'  Agreed,'  said  Jean,  '  but  for  my  pains, 
Thou'lt  come,  love,  to  Pont-Neuf  with  me  ! 

During  eight  days  of  fete, 

With  a  true  kingly  show. 

All  crown'd  and  in  state. 

To  the  opera  we'll  go  !'  .  .  , 

Laugh  and  sing,  dance  and  bound, 
Take  thy  gloves,  the  world  run  round  ; 
But,  whate'er  thy  purse  contain. 
To  thy  Paris  come  again  ! 

Paris  Jean,  Paris  Jean, 

To  thy  Paris  haste  again  ! 

PIERRE-JEAN    DE    BERANGER. 
THE  NOTARY 

Verging  towards  forty,  plump,  short,  hale,  and 
dressed  in  black,  the  notary  is  apparently  full  of  con- 
fidence in  himself,  rather  stiiJ,  and  decidedly  pedantic 
and  affected.  Upon  his  features  you  observe  a  mask  of 
bland  silliness,  which,  feigned  at  first,  has  become  by 
practice  the  confirmed  expression  of  his  countenance 
— showing  the  passive  calmness  of  the  diplomatist, 


A  FEW  PARISIAN  PORTRAITS  193 

without  his  acuteness.  The  yellowish  tint  of  his  bald 
forehead  is  indicative  of  long  toil,  internal  struggles, 
many  cares,  and  a  stormy  youth,  but  bears  no  trace  ot 
actual  passion. 

The  tall,  thin  notary  is  an  exception.  Physiologi- 
cally speaking,  notarial  avocations  are  incompatible 
with  some  constitutions.  An  irritable  and  nervous 
disposition  which  may  occasionally  be  observed  in 
attorneys  would  be  fatal  to  the  notary.  His  profession 
requires  extreme  patience  ;  he  must  obtain  such  con- 
trol over  himself  as  to  be  able  to  listen  with  apparently 
unaffected  resignation  to  the  interminable  com- 
munications of  his  clients,  each  of  whom  thinks  that 
his  business  is  the  only  one  in  the  world  worthy  of 
attention.  .  .  .  Dull  and  heavy  as  the  notary  now 
appears,  he  was  once  blithe  and  merry  ;  he  may  have 
been  witty,  and  was  perhaps  once  in  love.  Mysterious 
being  !  deserving  of  pity,  as  much  when  you  are  fond 
of  your  profession,  as  when  you  hold  it  in  abhorrence. 
Simple-minded,  yet  cunning,  you  are  at  once  an 
CEdipus  and  a  Sphinx  ;  you  resemble  the  one  in  your 
obscure  phraseology,  while  you  possess  also  the 
shrewdness  of  the  other. 

Sometimes  the  notary  begins  as  an  errand  boy,  as  a 
lad,  ambitious  of  dying  a  general,  would  enlist  as  a 
soldier.  He  goes  through  all  the  stages  of  the  profes- 
sion. A  young  man  who  has  spent  five  or  six  years  in 
one  or  more  offices  cannot  be  expected  to  retain  much 
of  his  simplicity  :  he  has  seen  the  underwork  of  many 
fortunes  ;  witnessed  the  selfish  quarrels  of  heirs  and 
legatees  ;  he  has  often  observed  human  avarice  ar- 
rested only  in  its  schemes  by  the  penal  enactments  of 
the  law.  There  is  a  public  office  at  the  courts  of  justice 
in  Paris,  where  the  signatures  of  notaries  have  to  be 

13 


194  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

certified  ;  it  is  crowded  every  morning  with  junior 
clerks,  sportive  as  goldfish,  and  mischievous  as  mon- 
keys, who  so  pester  the  crabbed  old  clerk  in  atten- 
dance, that  he  scarcely  considers  himself  safe  behind 
his  iron  railings.  A  policeman  or  two  are  required  to 
keep  this  small  fry  in  order,  and  it  is  said  that  an 
apphcation  has  been  made  to  the  Prefect  of  Police ; 
but  he,  doubtless,  dreads  a  contamination  of  his  agents 
by  this  swarm  of  disorderly  imps,  at  whose  actions 
Lucifer  would  shudder.  They  know  everything,  say 
everything,  and  laugh  at  everything.  They  have 
originated  a  sort  of  telegraph  amongst  themselves,  by 
means  of  which  all  notarial  news  is  simultaneously 
circulated  through  every  office  in  Paris. 

Formerly  great  intimacy  subsisted  between  the 
Parisian  notaries  ;  it  is  even  said  that,  in  the  time  of 
the  Empire,  they  used  to  console  themselves  for  their 
reserve  in  public  by  getting  up  private  convivial  parties 
of  the  most  festive  nature. 

Two  ways  are  open  to  the  notary :  he  may  either  wait 
for  clients  and  business  at  his  office,  or  go  abroad  to 
seek  them.  The  married  notary  who  retains  a  certain 
respect  for  the  tenets  of  the  old  school  is  always  to  be 
found  at  his  office  ;  there  he  will,  with  the  utmost 
patience  and  attention,  listen  to  a  client's  circumlo- 
cutory statement,  and  endeavour  to  enlighten  him  to 
his  own  interest.  His  bows  to  his  clients  are  discrimi- 
nately  regulated  according  to  their  rank  and  station, 
and  the  nature  of  their  business.  Before  the  nobleman, 
he  bows  to  the  ground  ;  rich  clients  he  greets  with  a 
very  respectful  and  cordial  nod,  confining  himself  to 
returning  the  bow  of  those  who  are  in  difficulties  ; 
while  he  shows  his  poor  client  to  the  door  without 
answering  his  good  morning. 


A  FEW  PARISIAN  PORTRAITS  195 

The  little  notary  who  may  so  frequently  be  seen  in  a 
cabriolet  in  business  hours  is  not  yet  married.  He  is 
still  thin,  goes  a  great  deal  into  society,  and  at  all  balls 
and  parties  seeks  to  distinguish  himself  by  his  elegant 
manners.  His  office  is  situated  in  a  fashionable  street, 
and  he  treats  all  his  clients  with  equal  courtesy  :  he 
would  bow  to  the  column  of  the  Place  Vendome  if  he 
could  turn  the  acquaintanceship  to  any  account.  His 
obsequiousness  may  be  laughed  at,  but  what  does  he 
care  ?  His  business  is  prosperous,  and  to  keep  it 
flourishing  is  his  object. 

HONORE    DE    BALZAC. 

THE  CONCIERGE 

'  Cordon,  s'il  vous  plait !'  Be  polite  to  the  concierge 
under  all  circumstances.  You  are  in  his  hands.  He 
keeps  watch  over  you.  He  receives  all  your  letters, 
sees  all  your  friends,  your  tradesmen,  and  your  credi- 
tors. He  marks  the  hours  at  which  you  come  and  go. 
He  knows  when  you  have  a  new  coat,  and  what  you  do 
with  the  old  one.  Observe,  that  he  has  nothing  to  do 
in  the  world  (if  he  be  in  a  good  house)  except  to  make 
notes  from  that  little  window,  whence  he  surveys  the 
world  that  passes  to  and  fro.  It  is  he  who  answers  all 
questions  that  may  be  addressed  to  him  by  your 
friends,  or  enemies,  concerning  you.  You  are  only  the 
first-floor  lodger,  but  he  is  the  concierge  ;  and  he  will 
have  you  mark  the  difference  in  your  relative  positions. 
You  may  fret,  but  you  cannot  escape  him.  When  he 
pulls  the  cord,  you  must  accept  the  act  as  a  favour 
which  he  has  been  gracious  enough  to  pay  you.  There 
is  not  a  man  with  whom  you  are  acquainted  whose 
name  is  not  familiar  to  him.    All  your  little  ailments 

13—2 


196  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

are  at  his  fingers'  ends.  If  he  had  a  good  memory,  a 
fair  notion  of  style  and  orthography,  he  might  write 
romances  that  would  pale  the  star  of  the  author  of 
'  La  Femme  de  Trente  Ans.'  His  malicious  eye  marks 
who  comes  when  Monsieur  is  out.  He  knows  when  to 
put  a  pecuniary  expression  into  his  slavish  counten- 
ance. Monsieur  de  Vandenesse  is  understood  by  the 
concierge,  when  the  Marquis  is  all  confidence.  The 
Marquise  d'Aiglemont  could  not  have  defied  the  ven- 
geance of  the  man  in  the  little  dark  room,  by  the  gate- 
way of  her  hotel.  Irreproachable  himself,  he  sits  in  his 
sombre  little  cabin — as  judge  in  a  court  of  justice.  He 
knows  that  those  scandalous  romancists  of  the  Boule- 
vards write  severe  things  about  him.  They  call  him 
mouchard  ;  but  he  smiles,  and  counts  his  hundred-sous 
pieces ;  and  as  he  drops  them  in  his  leather  bag,  he 
grins — thinking  of  the  time  when  some  of  these  gentle- 
men will  be  lying  in  the  hospital — ay,  possibly  lapping 
the  soup  of  Bicetre  ;  and  he  will  be  rentier,  and  will 
follow  his  daughter  in  her  wedding-dress  to  the  Bois  de 
Boulogne,  having  given  her  a  pretty  dot.  .  .  .  His 
prying  habits  apart,  the  concierge  is  what  we  call  a 
respectable  man.  He  is  always  at  his  post.  He  is 
bountifully  civil.  He  is  ever  faithful  to  his  trust.  .  .  . 
The  extent  of  his  dissipation  is  an  occasional  coup  at 
the  nearest  wine-shop,  with  a  neighbour.  On  fine 
evenings  he  sits  under  the  gateway,  with  his  wife  and 
her  friend,  lazily  watching  the  passers-by.  In  the 
winter  he  is  shut,  with  his  wife  and  the  friend  (a  neigh- 
bouring cook  or  housemaid),  in  his  steamy  den.  ,  ,  . 
The  wife  and  her  friend  knit  and  talk  scandal ;  and  the 
concierge,  with  the  cordon  at  hand,  reads  the  evening 
paper,  and  gives  forth  the  news — when  he  is  in  an 
amiable  mood.     He  is  a  philosopher,  whom  nothing 


A  FEW  PARISIAN  PORTRAITS  197 

moves.  He  has  seen  every  phase  of  life.  Weddings  and 
funerals  by  the  hundred  ;  domestic  quarrels,  execu- 
tions, ruin,  extraordinary  strokes  of  luck,  love, 
jealousy,  despair — all  pass  by  that  little  square  window 
of  his.  .  .  .  The  privileges  of  the  concierge  are  bearable. 
Let  him  take  the  biggest  log  when  you  are  supplied 
\Wth  half  a  load  of  wood.  You  pay  him  the  expected 
gratification  when  you  return  home  after  midnight. 
You  cannot  help  the  fast  friendship  that  sprung  up 
between  him  and  your  cook.  He  must  know  when  the 
price  of  peaches  are  low  enough  for  your  pocket ;  and 
that  you  quarrelled  with  the  cobbler  over  his  charge 
for  mending  your  shoes.  Every  detail  of  your  contract 
with  the  traiteiir  is  his  property.  You  drink  Bordeaux 
at  twenty-five  sous  the  litre,  and  he  knows  it ;  and  it  is 
only  when  you  have  friends,  you  go  even  as  far  as 
Beaune.  The  fowls  are  too  dear  in  the  market  to-day 
for  Madame  ;  the  cook  has  told  him  so  \vith  a  toss  of 
the  head  ;  and  he  holds  that  you  are  hien  pen  de  chose. 
A  friend  out  at  elbows  has  paid  you  a  visit ;  and  went 
out  arm  in  arm  with  you,  and  tii-toied  you.  The  land- 
lord has  called  three  times  for  his  rent.  It  is  the  privi- 
lege of  the  concierge  to  be  posted  up  in  the  doings  of 
the  back  staircase,  and  of  the  front  stairccise,  of  your 
estabhshment.  You  furnish  Sunday  afternoon  con- 
versation to  him  and  his  friends.  .  .  . 

It  has  long  been  agreed  on  all  hands,  that  it  is  pru- 
dent to  be  on  excellent  terms  with  the  man  who 
guards  the  gate  of  your  house,  who  receives  your 
letters,  and  who  knows  many  of  your  secrets.  He  is 
laughed  at,  but  he  remains  strong.  His  tyranny  is  felt 
every  hour  in  the  day,  but  Paris  must  be  rebuilt  before 
it  can  be  shaken  off.  He  can  be  punished  if  he  betrays 
a  trust ;  a  lodger  can  compel  the  landlord  to  dismiss 


198  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

him,  if  he  misbehaves  himself  ;  but  while  he  is  merely 
a  reckless  gossip,  a  mahcious  brewer  of  mischief,  or  an 
eccentric  who  is  crushed  by  an  overweening  estimate  of 
the  importance  of  his  duties,  he  must  be  tolerated,  and 
not  only  be  tolerated,  he  must  be  petted. 

A  Parisian's  house  is  not  his  castle — it  is  that  of  the 
concierge  !  ^    blanchard  jerrold. 

LE  PETIT  HOMME  GRIS 
In  Paris  lives  a  little  man 

Who's  always  dressed  in  grey : 
His  chiibby  cheeks  Hke  apples  glow  ; 
His  pockets  can't  a  penny  show ; 

Yet  happy  as  the  day, 

*  Ho  !'  quoth  the  httle  man  in  grey, 

'  I  laugh  at  all  things — that's  my  way  !' 
And  sure,  the  gayest  of  the  gay 
Is  he,  the  httle  man  in  grey  ! 

He  falls  in  love  with  pretty  girls, — 

They  sum  up  quite  a  score, — 
Hobnobbing,  singing,  into  debt 
He  runs  head  over  heels  ;  and  yet 
When  bailiffs  press  him  sore, 

*  Ho  !'  quoth  the  httle  man  in  grey, 

*  I  laugh  at  all  things — that's  my  way  !' 
And  sure,  the  gayest  of  the  gay 

Is  he,  the  httle  man  in  grey  ! 

Let  rain  into  his  garret  leak  ; 

Let  him,  unconscious  soul, 
Sleep  in  it ;  'mid  December's  snow 
Let  him  his  freezing  fingers  blow. 

For  lack  of  wood  or  coal ; 


A  FEW  PARISIAN  PORTRAITS  199 

'  Ho  !'  quoth  the  little  man  in  grey, 
'  I  laugh  at  all  things — that's  my  way !' 
And  sure,  the  gayest  of  the  gay 
Is  he,  the  little  man  in  grey  ! 

PIERRE-JEAN    DE   BE'rANGER. 

PARIS  STUDIED  IN  ITS  ATOM 
The  Gamin  of  Paris 

Paris  has  a  child,  and  the  forest  has  a  bird ;  the  bird 
is  called  the  sparrow ;  the  child  is  called  the  gamin. 
Couple  these  two  ideas  which  contain,  the  one  all 
the  furnace,  the  other  all  the  dawn  ;  strike  these  two 
sparks  together,  Paris,  childhood ;  there  leaps  out 
from  them  a  httle  being— ho muncio ,  Plautus  would 
say.  .  .  ,  The  gamin — the  street  Arab — of  Paris  is  the 
dwarf  of  the  giant. 

Let  us  not  exaggerate,  this  cherub  of  the  gutter 
sometimes  has  a  shirt,  but,  in  this  case,  he  owns  but 
one  ;  he  sometimes  has  shoes,  but  then  they  have  no 
soles  ;  he  sometimes  has  a  lodging,  and  he  loves  it,  for 
he  finds  his  mother  there  ;  but  he  prefers  the  street, 
because  there  he  finds  liberty.  He  has  his  own  games 
his  own  bits  of  mischief,  whose  foundation  consists  of 
hatred  for  the  bourgeois  ;  his  peculiar  metaphors  ;  to 
be  dead  is  to  eat  dandelions  by  the  root ;  his  own  occupa- 
tions, calling  hackney-coaches,  letting  down  carriage- 
steps,  estabhshing  means  of  transit  between  the  two 
sides  of  a  street  in  heavy  rains,  which  he  calls  making 
the  bridge  of  arts,  crying  discourses  pronounced  by 
authorities  in  favour  of  the  French  people.  ...  In  the 
evening,  thanks  to  a  few  sous,  which  he  always  finds 
means  to  procure,  the  homiincio  enters  a  theatre.  On 
crossing   that   magic   threshold,    he   becomes   trans- 


200  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

figured  ;  he  was  the  street  Arab,  he  becomes  the  titi 
(chicken).  Theatres  are  a  sort  of  ship  turned  upside 
down  with  the  keel  in  the  air.  It  is  in  that  keel  that  the 
titi  huddle  together.  The  titi  is  to  the  gamin  what  the 
moth  is  to  the  larva ;  the  same  being  endowed  with 
wings  and  soaring.  It  suffices  for  him  to  be  there,  with 
his  radiance  of  happiness,  with  his  power  of  en- 
thusiasm and  joy,  with  his  hand-clapping,  which 
resembles  a  clapping  of  wings,  to  confer  on  that 
narrow,  dark,  fetid,  sordid,  unhealthy,  hideous, 
abominable  keel,  the  name  of  Paradise. 

Bestow  on  an  individual  the  useless  and  deprive  him 
of  the  necessary,  and  you  have  the  gamin. 

The  gamin  is  not  devoid  of  literary  intuition.  His 
tendency,  and  we  say  it  with  the  proper  amount  of 
regret,  would  not  constitute  classic  taste.  He  is  not 
very  academic  by  nature.  Thus,  to  give  an  example, 
the  popularity  of  Mademoiselle  Mars  among  that  little 
audience  of  stormy  children  was  seasoned  with  a  touch 
of  irony.  The  gamin  called  her  Mademoiselle  Muche — 
'  hide  yourself.' 

This  being  bawls  and  scoffs  and  ridicules  and  fights, 
has  rags  like  a  baby  and  tatters  like  a  philosopher, 
fishes  in  the  sewer  ,  .  .  extracts  mirth  from  foulness, 
whips  up  the  squares  with  his  wit,  grins  and  bites, 
whistles  and  sings,  shouts  and  shrieks,  tempers 
Alleluia  with  Matanturlurette,  chants  every  rhyme 
from  the  De  Profundis  to  the  Jack-pudding,  finds 
without  seeking,  knows  what  he  is  ignorant  of,  is  a 
Spartan  to  the  point  of  thieving,  is  mad  to  wisdom. 
.  .  .   The  gamin  of  Paris  is  Rabelais  in  his  youth. 

Paris  begins  with  the  lounger  and  ends  with  the 
street  Arab,  two  beings  of  which  no  other  city  is 
capable  ;  the  passive  acceptance,  which  contents  itself 


A  FEW  PARISIAN  PORTRAITS  201 

with  gazing,  and  the  inexhaustible  initiative  ;  Prud- 
homme  and  Fouillon.  Paris  alone  has  this  in  its 
natural  history.  The  whole  of  the  monarchy  is  con- 
tained in  the  lounger  ;  the  whole  of  anarchy  in  the 
gamin. 

This  pale  child  of  the  Parisian  faubourgs  lives 
and  develops,  makes  connections,  '  grows  supple  '  in 
suffering,  in  the  presence  of  social  realities  and  of 
human  things,  a  thoughtful  witness.  He  thinks  him- 
self heedless  ;  and  he  is  not.  He  looks  and  is  on  the 
verge  of  laughter  ;  he  is  on  the  verge  of  something  else 
also.  .  ,  . 

The  little  fellow  will  grow  up. 

Of  what  clay  is  he  made  ?  Of  the  first  mud  that 
comes  to  hand.  A  handful  of  dirt,  a  breath,  and  behold 
Adam.  It  suffices  for  a  God  to  pass  by.  A  God  has 
always  passed  over  the  street  Arab.  Fortune  labours 
at  this  tiny  being.  By  the  word  '  fortune  '  we  mean 
chance,  to  some  extent.  That  pigmy  kneaded  out  of 
common  earth,  ignorant,  unlettered,  giddy,  vulgar, 
low.  Will  that  become  an  Ionian  or  a  Boeotian?  Wait, 
ciirril  rota,  the  spirit  of  Paris,  that  demon  which  creates 
the  children  of  chance  and  the  men  of  destiny,  revers- 
ing the  process  of  the  Latin  potter,  makes  of  a  jug  an 
amphora. 

The  gamin  loves  the  city,  he  also  loves  sohtude, 
since  he  has  something  of  the  sage  in  him.  Urbis 
amator,  like  Fuscus  ;  ruris  amator,  like  Flaccus.  .  .  . 

While  in  any  other  great  city  the  vagabond  child  is  a 
lost  man,  while  nearly  everywhere  the  child  left  to 
itself  is,  in  some  sort,  sacrificed  and  abandoned  to  a 
kind  of  fatal  immersion  in  the  public  vices  which 
devour  in  him  honesty  and  conscience,  the  street  boy 
of  Paris,  we  insist  on  this  point,  however  defaced  and 


202  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

injured  on  the  surface,  is  almost  intact  in  the  interior. 
It  is  a  magnificent  thing  to  put  on  record,  and  one 
which  shines  forth  in  the  probity  of  our  popular 
revolutions,  that  a  certain  incorruptibihty  results 
from  the  idea  which  exists  in  the  air  of  Paris,  as  salt 
exists  in  the  water  of  the  ocean.  To  breathe  Paris 
preserves  the  soul.   .  .  . 

In  summer,  the  gamin  metamorphoses  himself  into 
a  frog  ;  and  in  the  evening,  when  night  is  falUng  in 
front  of  the  bridges  of  Austerlitz  and  Jena,  from  the 
tops  of  coal-waggons,  and  the  washerwomen's  boats,  he 
hurls  himself  headlong  into  the  Seine.  .  .  . 

There  was  something  of  that  boy  in  Poquelin,  the 
son  of  the  fish-market ;  Beaumarchais  had  something 
of  it.  Gaminerie  is  a  shade  of  the  Gallic  spirit. 
Mingled  with  good  sense,  it  sometimes  adds  force  to 
the  latter,  as  alcohol  does  to  wine.  Sometimes  it  is  a 
defect.  Homer  repeats  himself  eternally,  granted  ;  one 
may  say  that  Voltaire  plays  the  gamin.  Camille  Des- 
moulins  was  a  native  of  the  faubourgs.  Championnet, 
who  treated  miracles  brutally,  rose  from  the  pave- 
ments of  Paris.  .  .  . 

The  gamin  of  Paris  is  respectful,  ironical,  and  inso- 
lent. He  has  villainous  teeth,  because  he  is  badly  fed 
and  his  stomach  suffers,  and  handsome  eyes  because 
he  has  wdt.  .  .  .  He  is  strong  on  boxing.  All  behefs  are 
possible  to  him.  He  plays  in  the  gutter,  and  straightens 
himself  up  with  a  revolt ;  his  effrontery  persists  even 
in  the  presence  of  grapeshot ;  he  was  a  scapegrace,  he 
is  a  hero  ;  Uke  the  Uttle  Theban,  he  shakes  the  skin 
from  the  lion  ;  Barra  the  drummer-boy  was  a  gamin  of 
Paris  ;  he  shouts  :  '  Forward  !'  as  the  horse  of  Scrip- 
ture says  '  Vah  !'  and  in  a  moment  he  has  passed  from 
the  small  brat  to  the  giant. 


A  FEW  PARISIAN  PORTRAITS  203 

This  child  of  the  puddle  is  also  the  child  of  the  ideal. 
Measure  that  spread  of  wings  which  reaches  from 
MoHere  to  Barra.  ...  In  one  word,  the  gamin  is  a 
being  who  amuses  himself  because  he  is  unhappy. 

To  sum  it  all  up  once  more,  the  Paris  gamin  of  to- 
day, hke  the  grc-eculus  of  Rome  in  days  gone  by,  is  the 
infant  populace  with  the  wrinkle  of  the  old  world  on 
his  brow. 

The  gamin  is  a  grace  to  the  nation,  and  at  the  same 
time  a  disease  ;  a  disease  which  must  be  cured,  how  ? 
By  light.  .  .  .  The  gamin  expresses  Paris,  and  Paris 
expresses  the  world.  victor  hugo. 

ON  SOME  WAITERS  AT  CERTAIN   PARISIAN   CAF]£3 

Universally  his  shirt  is  of  the  finest  linen ;  his 
patent-leather  shoes  have  been  made  to  order  by  a 
bootmaker  in  the  Rue  Vivienne  ;  he  uses  only  the  most 
perfumed  soap,  the  smoothest  almond  paste ;  his 
dentist  is  Desirabode  ;  his  hairdresser,  Michalon  :  he 
has  taken  lessons  in  the  art  of  perpetual  smiling  from  a 
retired  opera  mimic  ;  he  is  patient,  polite,  obliging. 

This  profession  generally  descends  from  father  to  son. 
The  man  who  serves  the  ices  at  the  Cafe  de  Foi  or  the 
brandy  cherries  at  La  Mere  Soguet's  at  the  Barriere  du 
Maine,  had  a  great-great-grandfather  who  exercised 
functions  before  him,  as  a  Siguier,  a  M0I6,  a  Crillon ; 
had  ancestors  in  the  magistracy  or  the  army.  The  art 
of  pouring  out  coffee  and  liqueurs,  of  gliding  adroitly 
through  the  labyrinth  of  tables  and  stools,  carrying  in 
the  right  hand  a  tray  of  glasses,  a  complete  tea- 
service,  a  phalanx  of  decanters  of  orgeat,  requires  long 
practice. 

There  may  be  found  in  this  interesting  class  some 


204  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

practitioners  who  were  not  brought  up  to  the  pro- 
fession, and  who  at  fifteen  could  not  have  washed  a 
glass  without  breaking  it.  This  is  a  variety  of  the 
species  in  whom  genius  has  shone  forth  all  at  once. 
The  events  of  their  early  life  could  be  traced  only  in 
the  chronicles  of  Chaumiere  and  the  Courtille,  or  have 
been  buried  in  the  smoky  atmosphere  of  a  hundred 
taverns.  .  .  . 

The  manners,  habits,  and  even  the  dress  of  the  caf6 
waiter  vary  according  to  the  neighbourhood  in  which 
he  is  located.  In  the  Palais  Royal,  on  the  Boulevards, 
from  the  Madeleine  to  the  Faubourg  du  Temple,  and 
in  some  parts  of  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain,  he  is  ever 
nice,  ever  attentive.  Shirts  of  fine  linen  no  longer  con- 
tent him  ;  he  must  have  cambric  fronts.  He  changes 
his  aprons  as  often  as  kings  change  their  ministers. 
His  hair,  always  dressed  in  the  latest  fashion,  is  redo- 
lent of  the  sweetest  perfume  ;  his  jacket  cannot  be 
more  than  a  jacket,  but  it  is  remarkable  for  the  fine- 
ness of  its  texture  and  its  graceful  form.  His  hands 
are  white  and  taper.  He  expresses  himself  in  the  most 
refined  language,  and  condescends  to  read  only  in 
books  elegantly  bound.  When  anybody  complains  of 
the  coffee  that  he  has  just  poured  out,  he  raises  his  eye 
to  heaven,  sighs,  and  handing  another  cup,  fills  it 
from  the  same  coffee-pot,  saying,  '  This  time,  sir,  I 
know  you  will  be  satisfied  !'  Does  a  regular  customer 
enter  yawning  or  complaining  of  headache  or  rheuma- 
tism, *  What  can  we  expect,  sir  ?  The  weather  is  so 
changeable  !'  Endowed  with  a  lively  imagination,  a 
large  portion  of  vanity,  and  with  much  flexibility  of 
mind,  he  with  great  facility  assumes  the  manners,  the 
tempers,  and  the  language  of  those  on  whom  he 
habitually  waits. 


A  FEW  PARISIAN  PORTRAITS  205 

The  waiter  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Boulevard 
St.  Martin,  notwithstanding  an  affectation  of  steadi- 
ness, is  rather  rakish  in  consequence  of  being  so  near 
the  Courtille  ;  he  is  also  extremely  literary,  being  daily 
in  the  habit  of  waiting  on  the  authors  who  write  for 
the  minor  theatres,  the  Ambigu,  the  Gaietie,  and  the 
Porte  St.  Martin.  He  knows  at  his  fingers'  ends  how 
many  times  the  plays  of  Gaspardo  and  Le  Sonneur  de 
St.  Paul  have  been  represented  ;  he  can  repeat  the 
witticisms  of  M.  Harel ;  has  spoken  twice  to  Mdlle. 
Georges,  and  often  lends  his  snuff-box  to  Bocage. 

At  the  Cafe  de  Paris  the  waiter  is  learned  in  aU  the 
details,  all  the  science  of  the  steeplechase.  He  abomi- 
nates boiled  beef ;  he  begins  to  be  tired  of  Duprez  ;  he 
calls  a  cab  a  vehicle,  and  when  out  for  a  hohday 
smokes  only  the  best  cigars. 

Formerly  the  waiter  at  the  Cafe  Desmares  was  pro- 
digiously military.  He  knew  all  the  superior  officers  in 
the  royal  guard,  all  the  on  dits  at  the  barrack  of  the 
Gardes  du  Corps.  He  is  no  longer  martial,  but  he  is 
still  aristocratical ;  he  is  ever  sighing  and  lamenting, 
and  like  the  great  people  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain, 
he  waits  for  brighter  days. 

The  waiters  in  the  cafes  in  the  Quartier  Latin  have 
also  their  peculiar  physiognomy.  The  influence  of  the 
schools,  the  scientific  societies,  the  Chamber  of  Peers 
may  easily  be  discerned  in  their  opinions  and  their 
tastes.    They  are  first-rate  domino  players. 

The  Cafe  de  Foy  is  the  establishment  where  the 
waiter  makes  the  most  rapid  fortune  ;  at  least  that  is 
the  received  opinion.  It  must  be  generally  allowed 
that  in  no  other  cafe  is  his  training  so  perfect.  He 
unites  the  several  advantages  of  the  other  waiters 
with  a  certain  air  of  dignity  and  a  diplomatic  poUte- 


2o6  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

ness,  which  indicate  a  more  frequent  contact  with 
really  good  company.  The  waiters  at  the  Cafe  de  Foy 
resemble  no  others  ;  they  may  be  said  to  form  a  class 
by  themselves.  The  first  thing  remarkable  is  their 
height.  It  is  commonly  said  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
the  Palais  Royal,  '  as  tall  as  a  waiter  at  the  Cafe  de 
Foy.'  In  military  phrase  one  may  say  that  they  are  the 
grenadiers  of  the  army  of  waiters.  Of  all  public  places 
of  the  same  kind  this  is  the  most  simple  in  its  decora- 
tions. Here  the  sight  is  not  dazzled  by  any  profusion 
of  gilding,  paintings,  and  looking-glasses  of  extra- 
ordinary dimensions.  The  Cafe  de  Foy  has  lived 
quietly  for  some  years  on  the  reputation  of  a  quail 
painted  on  the  ceiHng  by  Carle  Vernet,  where  it  may 
be  seen  to  this  hour. 

AUGUSTE    RICARD. 
DANTON 

The  huge  brawny  figure,  through  whose  black  brows 
and  rude  flattened  face  (figure  ecrasee)  there  looks  a 
waste  energy  as  of  Hercules  not  yet  furibund, — he  is 
an  esurient  unprovided  advocate,  Danton  by  name, 
him  mark.  .  .  .  The  black  brows  clouded,  the  colossus 
figure  tramping  heavy  ;  grim  energy  looking  from  all 
features  of  the  rugged  man  !  Strong  is  that  grim  Son 
of  France  and  Son  of  Earth  ;  a  Reahty  and  not  a  For- 
mula he  too  :  and  surely  now  if  ever,  being  hurled  low 
enough,  it  is  on  the  Earth  and  on  Reahties  that  he 
rests.  .  .  .  The  man  Danton  was  not  prone  to  show 
himself ;  to  act,  or  uproar  for  his  own  safety.  A  man 
of  careless,  large,  hoping  nature  ;  a  large  nature  that 
could  rest :  he  would  sit  whole  hours,  they  say,  hearing 
Camille  talk,  and  liked  nothing  so  well.  ...  No  hollow 


A  FEW  PARISIAN  PORTRAITS  207 

Formalist,  deceptive  and  self-deceptive,  ghastly  to  the 
natural  sense,  was  this  ;  but  a  very  Man  :  with  all  his 
dross  he  was  a  Man  ;  fiery-real,  from  the  great  fire- 
bosom  of  Nature  herself.  He  saved  France  from 
Brunswick  ;  he  walked  straight  his  own  wild  road, 
whither  it  led  him.  He  may  live  for  some  generations 
in  the  memory  of  man. 

THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

CHARLOTTE  CORDAY 

She  is  of  stately  Norman  figure  ;  in  her  twenty-fifth 
year  ;  of  beautiful  still  countenance  :  her  name  is 
Charlotte  Corday,  heretofore  styled  D'Armans,  while 
nobility  still  was.  .  .  .  Apparently  she  \sill  to  Paris  on 
some  errand  ?  '  She  was  a  Repubhcan  before  the 
Revolution,  and  never  wanted  energy.'  A  complete- 
ness, a  decision  is  in  this  fair  female  figure  :  '  by  energy 
she  means  the  spirit  that  will  prompt  one  to  sacrifice 
himself  for  his  country.'  What  if  she,  this  fair  young 
Charlotte,  had  emerged  from  her  secluded  stillness, 
suddenly  like  a  star  ;  cruel-lovely,  with  half-angelic, 
half-daemonic  splendour  ;  to  gleam  for  a  moment,  and 
in  a  moment  be  extinguished  :  to  be  held  in  memory, 
so  bright  complete  was  she,  through  long  centuries  ! — 
Quitting  Cimmerian  coalitions  without,  and  the  dim- 
simmering  twenty-five  millions  within,  history  will 
look  fixedly  at  this  one  fair  apparition  of  a  Charlotte 
Corday  ;  will  note  whither  Charlotte  moves,  how  the 
little  life  burns  forth  so  radiant,  then  vanishes 
swallowed  of  the  night. 

With  Rarbaroux's  note  of  introduction,  and  slight 
stock  of  luggage.we  sec  Charlotte  on  Tuesday,  the  ninth 
of  July,  seated  in  the  Caen  diligence,  with  a  place  for 


2o8  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

Paris.  None  takes  farewell  of  her,  wishes  her  good- 
journey  :  her  father  will  find  a  line  left,  signifying  that 
she  is  gone  to  England,  that  he  must  pardon  her  and 
forget  her.  The  drowsy  diligence  lumbers  along,  amid 
drowsy  talk  of  politics  and  praise  of  the  mountain  ;  in 
which  she  mingles  not :  all  night,  all  day,  and  again  all 
night.  On  Thursday,  not  long  before  noon,  we  are  at 
the  bridge  of  Neuilly  ;  here  is  Paris  with  her  thousand 
black  domes,  the  goal  and  purpose  of  thy  journey  ! 
Arrived  at  the  Inn  de  la  Providence  in  the  Rue  des 
Vieux  Augustins,  Charlotte  demands  a  room  ;  hastens 
to  bed  ;  sleeps  all  afternoon  and  night,  till  the  morrow 
morning. 

On  the  morrow  morning,  she  delivers  her  note  to 
Duperret.  It  relates  to  certain  family  papers  which  are 
in  the  Minister  of  the  Interior's  hand  ;  which  a  nun  at 
Caen,  an  old  convent-friend  of  Charlotte's,  has  need 
of  ;  which  Duperret  shall  assist  her  in  getting :  this 
then  was  Charlotte's  errand  to  Paris  ?  She  has  finished 
this,  in  the  course  of  Friday  ;  yet  says  nothing  of 
returning.  She  has  seen  and  silently  investigated 
several  things.  The  Convention,  in  bodily  reality,  she 
has  seen  ;  what  the  mountain  is  like.  The  living 
physiognomy  of  Marat  she  could  not  see  ;  he  is  sick  at 
present,  and  confined  to  home. 

About  eight  on  the  Saturday  morning,  she  purchases 
a  large  sheath-knife  in  the  Palais  Royal ;  then  straight- 
way, in  the  Place  des  Victoires,  takes  a  hackney- 
coach  :  '  To  the  Rue  de  I'Ecole  de  Medecine,  No.  44.' 
It  is  the  residence  of  the  Citoyen  Marat !  —  The 
Citoyen  Marat  is  ill,  and  cannot  be  seen  ;  which  seems 
to  disappoint  her  much.  Her  business  is  with  Marat, 
then  ?  Hapless  beautiful  Charlotte  ;  hapless  squalid 
Marat !    From  Caen  in  the  utmost  west,  from  Neu- 


A  FEW  PARISIAN  PORTRAITS  20Q 

chatel  in  the  utmost  east,  they  two  are  drawing  nigh 
each  other  ;  they  two  have,  very  strangely,  business 
together. — Charlotte,  returning  to  her  inn,  despatches 
a  short  note  to  Marat,  signifying  that  she  is  from 
Caen  the  seat  of  rebelhon  ;  that  she  desires  earnestly 
to  see  him,  and  will  '  put  it  in  his  power  to  do  France 
a  great  service.'  No  answer.  Charlotte  writes  another 
note,  still  more  pressing  ;  sets  out  with  it  by  coach, 
about  seven  in  the  evening,  herself.  Tired  day- 
labourers  have  again  finished  their  week  ;  huge  Paris 
is  circling  and  simmering,  manifold,  according  to  its 
vague  wont :  this  one  fair  figure  has  decision  in  it  ; 
drives  straight, — towards  a  purpose. 

It  is  yellow  July  evening,  we  say,  the  thirteenth 
of  the  month  ;  eve  of  the  Bastille  day, — when  '  M. 
Marat,'  four  years  ago,  in  the  crowd  of  the  Pont  Neuf, 
shrewdly  required  of  that  Besenval  Hussar-party, 
which  had  such  friendly  dispositions,  '  to  dismount 
and  give  up  their  arms,  then  ;'  and  became  notable 
among  Patriot  men.  Four  years  :  what  a  road  he  has 
travelled  ; — and  sits  now  about  half-past  seven  of  the 
clock,  stewing  in  slipper-bath  ;  sore  afflicted  ;  ill  of 
Revolution  fever, — of  what  other  malady  this  history 
had  rather  not  name.  Excessively  sick  and  worn,  poor 
man  :  with  precisely  elevenpence-halfpenny  of  ready- 
money  in  paper  ;  with  shpper-bath  ;  strong  three- 
footed  stool  for  writing  on,  the  while  ;  and  a  squaUd — 
washerwoman,  one  may  call  her  :  that  is  his  civic 
estabhshment  in  Medical-School  Street ;  thither  and 
not  elsewhither  has  his  road  led  him.  Not  to  the  reign 
of  brotherhood  and  perfect  felicity  ;  yet  surely  on  the 
way  towards  that  ? — Hark,  a  rap  again  :  A  musical 
woman's  voice,  refusing  to  be  rejected :  it  is  the 
citoyenne  who  would  do  France  a  service.     Marat, 

14 


210  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

recognizing  from  within,  cries,  Admit  her.    Charlotte 
Corday  is  admitted. 

Citoyen  Marat,  I  am  from  Caen  the  seat  of  rebellion, 
and  wished  to  speak  with  you. — Be  seated,  mon  enfant. 
Now  what  are  the  traitors  doing  at  Caen  ?  What 
deputies  are  at  Caen  ? — Charlotte  names  some  depu- 
ties. '  Their  heads  shall  fall  \\dthin  a  fortnight,'  croaks 
the  eager  people's-friend,  clutching  his  tablets  to 
write  :  Barbaroux,  Petion,  writes  he  with  bare  shrunk 
arm,  turning  aside  in  the  bath  :  Petion,  and  Louvet  and 
— Charlotte  has  drawn  her  knife  from  the  sheath  ; 
plunges  it,  with  one  sure  stroke,  into  the  writer's 
heart.  '  A  moi,  chere  amie,  help,  dear  !'  no  more  could 
the  death-choked  say  or  shriek.  The  helpful  washer- 
M'oman  running  in,  there  is  no  friend  of  the  people, 
or  friend  of  the  washerwoman  left ;  but  his  hfe 
with  a  groan  gushes  out,  indignant,  to  the  shades 
below. 

THOMAS  CARLYLE. 


ROBESPIERRE 

Shall  we  say,  that  anxious,  slight,  ineffectual-looking 
man,  under  thirty,  in  spectacles  ;  his  eyes  (were  the 
glasses  off)  troubled,  careful ;  with  upturned  face, 
snuffing  dimly  the  uncertain  future  times  ;  complexion 
of  a  multiplex  atrabiliar  colour,  the  final  shade  of 
which  may  be  the  pale  sea-green.  That  greenish 
coloured  {verddtre)  individual  is  an  advocate  of  Arras  ; 
liis  name  is  Maximilien  Robespierre.  The  son  of  an 
advocate,  his  father  founded  mason-lodges  under 
Charles  Edward,  the  English  Prince  or  Pretender. 
Maximilien  the  first-born  was  thriftily  educated  ;  he 


A  FEW  PARISIAN  PORTRAITS  211 

had  brisk  Camille  Desmoulins  for  schoolmate  in  the 
College  of  Louis  le  Grand,  at  Paris.  ...  A  strict- 
minded,  strait-laced  man  !  A  man  unfit  for  Revolu- 
tions ?  Whose  small  soul,  transparent,  wholesome- 
looking  as  small-ale,  could  by  no  chance  ferment  into 
virulent  alegar, — the  mother  of  ever  new  alegar,  till  all 
France  were  grown  acetous  virulent  ?   .   .   . 

Sea-green  Robespierre  ;  throwing  in  his  light  weight, 
with  decision,  not  yet  with  effect.  A  thin  lean  Puritan 
and  Presician,  he  would  make  away  with  formulas  ;  yet 
lives,  moves  and  has  his  being  wholly  in  formulas,  of 
another  sort.  .  .  .  More  insupportable  individual,  one 
would  say,  seldom  opened  his  mouth  in  any  Tribune. 
Acrid,  implacable-impotent ;  dull-drawling,  barren  as 
the  Harmattan  wind.  He  pleads,  in  endless  earnest- 
shallow  speech,  against  immediate  war,  against 
woollen  caps  or  bonnets  rouges,  against  many  things ; 
and  is  the  Trismegistus  and  Dalai-Lama  of  Patriot 
men.  ...  In  a  stealthy  way  the  sea-green  man  sits 
there,  his  fehne  eyes  excellent  in  the  twihght. . .  .  Does 
not  a  feUne  MaximiUen  stalk  there  ;  voiceless  as  yet ; 
his  green  eyes  red-spotted ;  back  bent,  and  hair  up  ? 
...  A  poor  sea-geen  (verddtre)  atrabihar  formula  of  a 
man  ;  without  head,  without  heart,  or  any  grace,  gift, 
or  even  vice  beyond  common,  if  it  were  not  vanity, 
astucity,  diseased  rigour  (wliich  some  count  strength) 
as  of  a  cramp  :  really  a  most  poor  sea-green  individual 
in  spectacles  ;  meant  by  Nature  for  a  Methodist  parson 
of  the  stricter  sort,  to  doom  men  who  departed  from 
the  written  confession  ;  to  chop  fruitless  shrill  logic  ; 
to  contend,  and  suspect,  and  ineffectually  wrestle  and 
wriggle  ;  and,  on  the  whole,  to  love,  or  to  know,  or  to 
be  (properly  speaking)  nothing  : — this  was  he  who,  the 
sport  of  wracking  winds,  saw  liinisclf  whirled  aloft  to 

14—2 


212  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

command  la  premiere  nation  de  Vunivers,  and  all  men 
shouting  long  life  to  him  :  one  of  the  most  lamentable, 
tragic,  sea-green  objects  ever  whirled  aloft  in  that 
manner,  in  any  country,  to  his  own  swift  destruction, 
and  the  world's  long  wonder  ! 

THOMAS  CARLYLE. 


THE  SEASONS  IN  Px\RIS 


L'£te  de  St.  Martin  made  the  Bois  look  very  lovely  indeed. 
Ascending  the  Champs  filysees  and  crossing  the  Place  de 
rfitoile,  I  found  the  coquettish  little  houses  built  d  I'Anglaise 
in  the  Avenue  de  I'lmperatrice  wearing  their  most  smiling 
aspect ;  and  the  eight  thousand  trees  and  shrubs  which  the 
massifs  of  the  Avenue  are  said  to  contain  showed  in  the  after- 
noon sunshine  but  very  few  signs  of  the  sere,  the  yellow  leaf. 
Far  off  in  the  blue  distance  loomed  the  fortress  of  Mont 
Valerien  and  the  hills  of  St.  Cloud,  of  Bellevue,  and  of 
Meudon. 

GEORGE    AUGUSTUS   SALA. 


HOW  SPRING  COMES  TO  PARIS 

The  next  day  was  the  first  of  May.  The  Easter  bells 
had  rung  in  the  resurrection  of  spring  a  few  days 
before,  and  she  had  come  eager  and  joyful.  She  came, 
as  the  German  ballad  says,  hght-hearted  as  the  young 
lover  who  is  going  to  plant  a  maypole  before  the 
window  of  his  betrothed.  She  painted  the  sky  blue,  the 
trees  green,  and  all  things  in  bright  colours.  She 
aroused  the  torpid  sun,  who  was  sleeping  in  his  bed  of 
mists,  his  head  resting  on  the  snow-laden  clouds  that 
served  him  as  a  pillow,  and  cried  to  him,  '  Hi !  hi !  my 
friend  ;  time  is  up,  and  I  am  here  ;  quick  to  work.  Put 
on  your  fine  dress  of  fresh  rays  without  further  delay 
and  show  yourself  at  once  on  your  balcony  to  announce 
my  arrival.' 

Upon  which  the  sun  had  indeed  set  out,  and  was 
marching  along  as  proud  and  haughty  as  some  great 
lord  of  the  court.  The  swallows,  returned  from  their 
Eastern  pilgrimage,  filled  the  air  with  their  flight,  the 
may  whitened  the  bushes,  the  violets  scented  the 
woods,  in  which  the  birds  were  leaving  their  nests, 
each  with  a  roll  of  music  under  its  wings.  It  was  spring 
indeed,  the  true  spring  of  poets  and  lovers,  and  not  the 
spring  of  the  almanac  maker — an  ugly  spring  with  a 
red  nose  and  frozen  fingers,  which  still  keeps  poor  folk 
shivering  at  the  chimney-corner  when  the  last  ashes  of 
the  last  log  have  long  since  burnt  out.  The  balmy 
breeze  swept  through  the  transparent  atmosphere  and 
scattered  throughout  the  city  the  first  scent  of  the  sur- 

3IS 


2i6  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

rounding  country.  The  rays  of  the  sun,  bright  and 
warm,  tapped  at  the  windows.  To  the  invahd  they 
cried,  '  Open,  we  are  health,'  and  at  the  garret  of  the 
young  girl  bending  towards  her  mirror,  innocent  first 
love  of  the  most  innocent,  they  said,  '  Open,  darling, 
that  we  may  light  up  your  beauty.  We  are  the  mes- 
sengers of  fine  weather.  You  can  now  put  on  your 
cotton  frock  and  your  straw  hat  and  lace  your  smart 
boots  ;  the  groves  in  which  folk  foot  it  are  decked  with 
bright  new  flowers,  and  the  violins  are  tuning  for  the 
Sunday  dance.     Good-morning,  my  dear  !' 

When  the  angelus  rang  out  from  the  neighbouring 
church,  the  three  hard-working  coquettes,  who  had 
had  scarcely  time  to  sleep  a  few  hours,  were  already 
before  their  looking-glasses,  giving  their  final  glance  at 
their  new  attire. 

They  were  all  three  charming,  dressed  alike,  and 
wearing  on  their  faces  the  same  glow  of  satisfaction 
imparted  by  the  realization  of  a  long-cherished  wish. 

Musette  was,  above  all,  dazzlingly  beautiful. 

'  I  have  never  felt  so  happy,'  said  she  to  Marcel. 
'  It  seems  to  me  that  God  has  put  into  this  hour  all  the 
happiness  of  my  life,  and  I  am  afraid  there  will  be  no 
more  left  me.  Ah  !  bah  !  when  there  is  no  more  left, 
there  will  still  be  some  more.  We  have  the  receipt  for 
making  it,'  she  added,  gaily  kissing  him. 

As  to  Phemie,  one  thing  vexed  her. 

'  I  am  very  fond  of  the  green  grass  and  the  little 
birds,'  said  she  ;  '  but  in  the  country  one  never  meets 
anyone,  and  there  will  be  no  one  to  see  my  pretty 
bonnet  and  my  nice  dress.  Suppose  we  went  into  the 
country  on  the  Boulevards  ?' 

HENRI    MURGER. 
Translated  by  W.  E.  Goidden. 


THE  SEASONS  IN  PARIS  217 

SPRING  IN  THE  GARDEN  OF  THE  LUXEMBOURG 

On  the  sixth  of  June,  1832,  about  eleven  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  the  Luxembourg,  solitary  and  depopulated, 
was  charming.  The  quincunxes  and  flower-beds  shed 
forth  balm  and  dazzhng  beauty  into  the  sunlight.  The 
branches,  wild  with  the  brilliant  glow  of  midday, 
seemed  endeavouring  to  embrace.  In  the  sycamores 
there  was  an  uproar  of  linnets,  sparrows  triumphed, 
woodpeckers  climbed  along  the  chestnut  trees,  ad- 
ministering Httle  pecks  on  the  bark.  The  flower-beds 
accepted  the  legitimate  royalty  of  the  lilies  ;  the  most 
august  of  perfumes  is  that  which  emanates  from 
whiteness.  .  .  .  The  old  cro\\'s  of  Marie  de  Medici  were 
amorous  in  the  tall  trees.  The  sun  gilded,  empurpled, 
set  fire  to  and  lighted  up  the  tulips,  which  are  nothing 
but  all  the  varieties  of  flame  made  into  flowers.  All 
around  the  banks  of  tulips  the  bees,  the  sparks  of 
these  flame-flowers,  hummed.  All  was  grace  and 
gaiety,  even  the  impending  rain  ;  this  relapse,  by 
which  the  liUes  of  the  valley  and  the  honeysuckles  were 
destined  to  profit,  had  nothing  disturbing  about  it ; 
the  swallows  indulged  in  the  charming  threat  of  flying 
low.  He  who  was  there  aspired  to  happiness  ;  life 
smelled  good  ;  all  nature  exhaled  candour,  help,  assist- 
ance, paternity,  caress,  dawn.  The  thoughts  which  fell 
from  heaven  were  as  sweet  as  the  tiny  hand  of  a  baby 
when  one  kisses  it. 

The  statues  under  the  trees,  white  and  nude,  had 
robes  of  shadow  pierced  with  light ;  these  goddesses 
were  all  tattered  with  sunlight ;  rays  hung  from  them 
on  all  sides.  Around  the  great  fountain,  the  earth  was 
already  dried  up  to  the  i)oint  of  being  burnt.  There 
was  sufficient  breeze  to  raise  little  insurrections  of  dust 
here  and  there.  A  few  yellow  leaves,  left  over  from  the 


2i8  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

autumn,  chased  each  other  merrily,  and  seemed  to  be 
playing  tricks  on  each  other. 

This  abundance  of  light  had  something  indescrib- 
ably reassuring  about  it.  Life,  sap,  heat,  odours  over- 
flowed ;  one  was  conscious,  beneath  creation,  of  the 
enormous  size  of  the  source  ;  in  all  these  breaths  per- 
meated with  love,  in  this  interchange  of  reverberations 
and  reflections,  in  this  marvellous  expenditure  of  rays, 
in  this  infinite  outpouring  of  hquid  gold,  one  felt  the 
prodigalit}''  of  the  inexhaustible ;  and,  behind  this 
splendour,  as  behind  a  curtain  of  flame,  one  caught  a 
glimpse  of  God,  that  millionaire  of  stars. 

Thanks  to  the  sand,  there  was  not  a  speck  of  mud  ; 
thanks  to  the  rain,  there  was  not  a  grain  of  ashes.  The 
clumps  of  blossoms  had  just  been  bathed;  every  sort  of 
velvet,  satin,  gold  and  varnish,  which  springs  from  the 
earth  in  the  form  of  flowers,  was  irreproachable.  The 
magnificence  was  cleanly.  The  grand  silence  of  happy 
natiue  filled  the  garden.  A  celestial  sUence  that  is  com- 
patible with  a  thousand  sorts  of  music,  the  cooing  of 
nests,  the  buzzing  of  swarms,  the  flutterings  of  the 
breeze.  All  the  harmony  of  the  season  was  complete  in 
one  gracious  whole  ;  the  entrances  and  exits  of  spring 
took  place  in  proper  order  ;  the  lilacs  ended  ;  the  jas- 
mines began ;  some  flowers  were  tardy,  some  insects 
in  advance  of  their  time  ;  the  vanguard  of  the  red  June 
butterflies  fraternized  with  the  rear-guard  of  the  white 
butterflies  of  May.  The  plane-trees  were  getting 
their  new  skins.  The  breeze  hollowed  out  undulations 
in  the  magnificent  enormity  of  the  chestnut-trees. 
It  was  splendid  !  A  veteran  from  the  neighbouring 
barracks,  who  was  gazing  through  the  fence,  said : 
'  Here  is  the  Spring  presenting  arms  and  in  full 
uniform  !'  victor  HUGO. 


THE  SEASONS  IN  PARIS  219 

SPRING  IN  MONTPARNASSE 

From  my  window,  on  this  April  afternoon,  I  look  into 
the  branches  of  the  varnish  tree,  and  see  a  thousand 
budded  twigs  stretched  upwards.  Sun-warmed  and 
sensitive,  like  clusters  of  little  mouths,  the  pouted  tips 
suck  air  and  azure.     Adorable  gluttons  ! 

In  the  sky,  films  of  clouds  roam  by  and  dissolve. 
The  soft  wind  parts  the  ivy  on  the  wall,  and  sets  it 
shaking  and  plajnng  ;  and  in  the  gentle  movement  of 
the  wind  the  budded  branches  of  the  varnish  tree  rock 
to  and  fro. 

The  chestnut  tree  is  crisply  frilled,  laden  here  and 
there  with  silver  knobs  in  bronze  cups.  The  bushes 
are  bright  with  vivid  emeralds. 

I  lean  out  of  my  window,  and  feel  the  warmth  of  the 
sun  upon  my  hair,  and  the  movement  of  the  wind 
amongst  it.  All  about  me  are  the  gUnting  of  leaves  and 
the  clamour  of  birds.  Above,  in  the  angelic  blue, 
clouds  pass  ceaselessly.  .  ,  . 

A  girl  stands  in  a  bare  window,  polishing  the  glass, 
rubbing  up  and  down  with  her  strong  young  arm  till 
the  pane  gleams  and  glances.  Now  she  sits  there, 
sewing  rings  on  a  new  rose-coloured  curtain.  Out  of 
the  windows  on  every  side  people  are  leaning,  laughing, 
and  chattering.  .  .  .  The  concierge  waddles  across  the 
cobble-stones,  a  rake  in  one  hand,  a  spade  in  the  other. 
Inexorably  she  scatters  the  upper  crust  of  the  pebbles 
on  the  bed,  hacks  round  the  edge  of  it,  unpots  an 
oleander.  She  nails  a  creeper  to  the  wall,  she  ties  a 
fuchsia  to  a  stick,  she  packs  some  pansies  in  a  bed,  and 
fills  the  blanks  in  the  bo.x-hedge  with  oyster  shells. 
Pink  and  panting,  her  hands  on  her  hips,  she  surveys 
her  work  and  smiles  upon  it.  .  .  . 

From   the  wall  in   the  garden   the   hght  is  with- 


220  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

drawing.  It  creeps  gi-adually  across,  slowly,  then  sud- 
denly goes  out.  Some  top  twigs  of  the  varnish  tree  are 
still  redly  crested  ;  deep  in  the  tree  it  is  dark.  The 
cobble-stones  lie  cold.  One  by  one  the  windows 
close. 

And  to-night  there  will  be  clouds  upon  clouds 
ranging  across  the  sky,  and  stars  amongst  them  hke 
diamonds  lost  in  snow,  and  a  moon  like  a  pearl  afloat 
in  a  grey  pool  fringed  with  an  opal  wreath.  On  the 
wall  the  ivy  will  he  dark  and  still,  sheltering  the  warm 
sleeping  birds.  The  chestnut  tree  will  be  at  rest,  its 
frills  spread  wide,  a  hundred  new  frills  along  its 
boughs.  And  by  my  window  the  varnish  tree  will 
stand,  naked  and  alone,  pointing  to  the  stars,  awake, 
and  full  of  dreams. 

KATIE    WINIFRED    MACDONALD. 


JUNE  IN  PARIS 

A  LOVELIEST  morning  in  June — an  inspiriting,  sunny, 
balmy  day,  all  softness  and  beauty,  and  we  crossed  the 
Tuileries  by  one  of  its  superb  avenues  and  kept  down 
the  bank  of  the  river  to  the  island.  ...  It  was  im- 
possible not  to  be  struck  forcibly  with  our  own  ex- 
quisite enjoyment  of  life.  I  am  sure  I  never  felt  my 
veins  fuller  of  the  pleasure  of  health  and  motion,  and  I 
never  saw  a  day  when  everything  about  me  seemed 
better  worth  living  for.  The  superb  palace  of  the 
Louvre,  with  its  long  facade  of  nearly  half  a  mile,  lay 
in  the  mellowest  sunshine  on  our  left, — the  lively  river, 
covered  with  boats  and  spanned  with  its  magnificent 
and  crowded  bridges  on  our  right, — the  view  of  the 
island  with  its  massive  old  structures  below, — and  the 
fine  old  grey  towers  of  the  church  of  Notre  Dame, 


THE  SEASONS  IN  PARIS  221 

rising  dark  and  gloomy  in  the  distance — it  was  diffi- 
cult to  realize  anything  but  life  and  pleasure.  .  .  . 

It  is  pleasant  to  get  back  to  Paris.  One  meets  every- 
body there  one  ever  saw  :  and  operas  and  coffee  ;  the 
belles  and  the  Boulevards  ;  the  shops,  spectacles,  life, 
lions,  and  lures  to  every  species  of  pleasure,  rather  give 
you  the  impression  that,  outside  the  barriers  of  Paris, 
time  is  wasted  in  travel.  What  pleasant  idlers  they 
look  !  The  very  shop-keepers  seem  standing  behind 
their  counters  for  amusement.  The  soubrette  who  sells 
you  a  cigar  is  coiffed  as  for  a  ball  ;  the  jrottcur  who 
takes  the  dust  from  your  boots,  sings  his  love-song  as 
he  brushes  away  ;  the  old  man  has  his  bouquet  in  his 
bosom,  and  the  beggar  looks  up  at  the  statue  of 
Napoleon  in  the  Place  Vendome — everybody  has  some 
touch  of  fancy,  some  trace  of  a  heart  on  the  look-out, 
at  least,  for  pleasure. 

N.    p.    WILLIS. 


THE  FiXES  OF  JULY 

Paris, 
July  30,  1839. 

We  have  arrived  here  just  in  time  for  the  fetes  of  July. 
You  have  read,  no  doubt,  of  that  glorious  Revolution 
which  took  place  here  nine  years  ago,  and  which  is  now 
commemorated  annually,  in  a  pretty  facetious  manner, 
by  gun-firing,  student-processions,  pole-climbing-for- 
silver-spoons,  gold-watches  and  legs-of-mutton,  monar- 
chical orations,  and  wliat  not,  and  sanctioned  moreover, 
by  Chamber-of-Deputies,  with  a  grant  of  a  couple  of 
hundred  thousand  francs  to  defray  the  expenses  of  all 
the  crackers,  gun-firings,  and  legs-of-mutton  aforesaid. 
There  is  a  new  fountain  in  the  Place  Louis  Quinze, 


222  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

otherwise  called  the  Place  Louis  Seize,  or  else  the  Place 
de  la  Revolution,  or  else  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  (who 
can  say  why  ?) — which,  I  am  told,  is  to  run  bad  wine 
during  certain  hours  to-morrow,  and  there  would  have 
been  a  review  of  the  National  Guards  and  the  Line — 
only,  since  the  Fieschi  business,  reviews  are  no  joke, 
and  so  this  later  part  of  the  festivity  has  been  dis- 
continued. .  . .  Where  is  the  Rabelais  to  be  the  faithful 
historian  of  the  last  phase  of  the  Revolution — the  last 
glorious  nine  years  of  which  we  are  now  commemorat- 
ing the  last  glorious  three  days  ? 

I  had  made  a  vow  not  to  say  a  syllable  on  the 
subject,  although  I  have  seen,  with  my  neighbours, 
all  the  ginger-bread  stalls  down  the  Champs  Elysees, 
and  some  of  the  catafalques  erected  to  the  memory  of 
the  heroes  of  July,  where  the  students  and  others,  not 
connected  personally  with  the  victims,  and  not  having 
in  the  least  profited  by  their  deaths,  come  and  weep  ; 
but  the  grief  shown  on  the  first  day  is  quite  as  absurd 
and  fictitious  as  the  joy  exhibited  on  the  last.  .  .  . 
About  the  little  catafalques  !  how  rich  the  contrast  pre- 
sented by  the  economy  of  the  Catholics  to  the  splendid 
disregard  of  the  expense  exhibited  by  the  devout 
Jews !  and  how  touching  the  '  apologetical  discourses 
on  the  Revolution,'  delivered  by  the  Protestant 
pastors  !  Fancy  the  profound  affliction  of  the  Gardes 
Municipaux,  the  Sergens-de-Ville,  the  police  agents  in 
plain  clothes,  and  the  troops  with  fixed  bayonets, 
sobbing  round  the  '  expiatory  monuments  of  a  pyra- 
midical  shape,  surmounted  by  funeral  vases,'  and  com- 
pelled, by  sad  duty,  to  fire  into  the  pubhc  who  might 
wish  to  indulge  in  the  same  woe  !  O  '  manes  of  July  ' 
(the  phrase  is  pretty  and  grammatical),  why  did  you 
with  sharp  bullets  break  those  Louvre  windows  ?  Why 


THE  SEASONS  IN  PARIS  223 

did  you  baj^onet  red-coated  Swss  behind  that  fair 
white  fa9ade,  and,  braving  cannon,  musket,  sabre, 
perspective  guillotine,  burst  yonder  bronze  gates,  rush 
through  the  picture-gallery,  and  hurl  royalty,  loyalty, 
and  a  thousand  years  of  kings,  head-over-heels  out  of 
yonder  Tuileries'  windows  ?  .  .  . 

The  last  rocket  of  the  fete  of  July  has  just  mounted, 
exploded,  made  a  portentous  bang,  and  emitted  a 
gorgeous  show  of  blue  lights,  another  (Uke  many  repu- 
tations) disappeared  totally :  the  hundredth  gun  on 
the  InvaUd  terrace  has  uttered  its  last  roar — and  a 
great  comfort  it  is  for  eyes  and  ears  that  the  festival 
is  over.  We  shaU  be  able  to  go  about  our  every-day 
business  again,  and  not  be  hustled  by  the  gendarmes 
or  the  crowd.  .  .  . 

The  sight  which  I  have  just  come  away  from  is  as 
brilhant,  happy,  and  beautiful  as  can  be  conceived ; 
and  if  30U  want  to  see  French  people  to  the  greatest 
advantage,  you  should  go  to  a  festival  Hke  this,  where 
their  manners,  and  innocent  gaiety,  show  a  very 
pleasing  contrast  to  the  course  and  vulgar  hilarity 
which  the  same  class  would  exhibit  in  our  own  country. 
.  ,  .  The  greatest  noise  that  I  heard  was  that  of  a 
company  of  jolly  villagers  from  a  place  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Paris,  who,  as  soon  as  the  fireworks  were 
over,  formed  themselves  into  a  line,  three  or  four 
abrc  ast,  and  so  marched  singing  home.  ...  It  does  one 
good  to  see  honest,  heavy  epiciers,  fathers  of  families 
playing  with  them  in  the  Tuileries,  or,  as  to-night, 
bearing  them  stoutly  on  their  shoulders,  through  many 
long  hours,  in  order  that  the  httle  ones,  too,  may  have 
their  share  of  the  fun. 

The  fete,  then,  is  over  ;  the  pompous  black  pyramid 
at  he  Louvre  is  only  a  skeleton  now ;  all  the  flags  have 


224  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

been  miraculously  whisked  away  during  the  night,  and 
the  five  chandehers  which  glittered  down  the  Champs 
Elysees  for  full  half  a  mile  have  been  consigned  to 
their  dens  and  darkness. 

WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

RENEWING  ACQUAINTANCESHIP  WITH  PARIS 
Paris  in  October 

Now  we  are  in  Paris  again,  but  this  time  not  as 
tourists  bent  upon  seeing  the  sights  in  a  week  :  we  are 
settling  down  with  some  months  before  us  for  quiet 
investigation.  .  .  .  We  are  renewing  the  Parisian  days 
of  our  youth  ;  we  have  put  a  few  francs  in  the  slot, 
and  the  figures  begin  to  perform.  .  .  . 

It  is  the  second  week  of  October,  but  still  as  warm 
as  our  northern  June.  From  our  open  windows  we  see 
the  swallows  careering  round  our  garden  court,  and 
circling  the  ancient  spire  of  St.  Germain  des  Pres.  We 
go  out  and  dawdle  in  the  direction  of  the  Luxem- 
bourg ;  it  is  a  lingering  business,  for  the  Rue  de  Seine  is 
one  long  cajolery  of  book-shops  and  print-shops,  and 
store  upon  store  of  curiosities.  We  intended  having  a 
look  at  the  Luxembourg  collection  to  see  how  it  now 
compares  with  the  extended  Tate  Gallery,  but  we 
have  to  pass  the  door  of  the  famous  Musee.  How 
could  we  have  entered  ?   .  .  . 

We  are  making  little  excursions  while  the  sun  shines, 
but  experience  is  teaching  us  the  wisdom  of  spending 
Sunday  as  our  day  of  rest  and  church-going.  In  Paris, 
the  Sunday  closing  movement  has  taken  great  strides, 
with  the  result,  that  on  that  day  the  steamers  and 
tramcars  are  uncomfortably  crowded,  in  spite  of  the 
doubling  of  fares.  We  went  down  the  river  to  St.  Cloud 


THE  SEASONS  IN  PARIS  225 

last  Sunday  and  had  to  stand  all  the  way  packed  in  a 
crowd.  Still,  it  was  worth  that  fatiguing  hour  on  the 
steamer  to  see  the  flowers  and  the  people,  the  avenues 
in  their  autumn  glory,  and  the  famous  view  of  Paris 
from  the  terrace.  We  had  never  before  seen  the 
beautiful  park  with  the  trees  in  golden  red  and 
yellow.  .  ,  . 

The  long  drive  from  the  Gare  de  Lyon  to  the  Made- 
leine [is]  probably  the  most  impressive  sight  that  Paris 
has  for  the  stranger.  It  takes  him  through  the  Place 
de  la  Bastille,  and  the  Place  de  la  Republiqtie  ;  past  the 
Partes  St.  Martin  and  St.  Denis  ;  and  then  by  the  wide 
and  worldly  Boulevards  right  on  to  the  church  of  St, 
Mary  Magdalen.  Whosoever  travels  this  way  receives 
the  most  vivid  impression  of  the  Paris  that  is,  and  the 
Paris  that  has  been — an  impression  that  will  remain  as 
long  as  life  shall  last.  So,  too,  with  the  second  show. 
We  entered  the  Louvre  Museum  by  the  main  door 
where  fat  Cockers  browse  and  sun  themselves ;  and 
guides  address  you  in  English.  We  passed  along  the 
Denon  sculpture  gallery,  ascended  the  first  short  flight 
of  the  main  staircase,  and  turned  to  the  left.  '  Then 
felt  we  like  some  watchers  of  the  skies  ' — there,  far 
away  at  the  extreme  end  of  the  vista,  the  radiant  form 
of  the  one  and  only  Venus  of  Milo  saluted  us,  com- 
pelling the  girl  to  quote  from  Keats,  and  to  call  me 
'  Cortez  ' — '  stout  Cortez,'  I  believe  she  said.  How- 
ever, I  did  not  mind  :  I  was  in  excellent  company,  and 
drew  my  niece's  attention  to  the  ample  circumference 
of  the  perfect  woman  ;  and  hinted  that  we  need  to 
revise  our  conceptions  of  the  ideal  length,  breadth,  and 
thickness  of  the  human  form. 

In  the  third  place,  and  in  conclusion,  we  passed  from 
the  gloom  of  Notre  Dame  into  the  glory  of  the  'Sainte- 

15 


226  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

ChapeUe.  What  the  interior  of  the  Sainte-Chapelle 
looks  like  on  a  bright  sunny  forenoon,  is  beyond  my 
power  of  expression.  Would  that  John  Keats  had 
stepped  in  to  help  us  again  as  he  did  with  the  Venus  of 
Milo.  Was  Keats  ever  in  Paris  ?  And  if  he  was,  is  there 
not  a  lost  sonnet  somewhere,  '  On  first  looking  into 
La  Sainte-Chapelle  '  ?  Ah  !  well,  he  knew  the  colour 
and  the  glamour  of  these  windows  :  he  must  have  seen 
them  often  in  his  dreams.  I  begin  to  feel  more  sure  and 
certain  of  this  :  it  was  these  he  took  for  the 

'  Charmed  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas.' 

And  it  was  a  bit  from  the  rose-window  that  he  set 
into  the  casement  of  sweet  Madeline's  chamber,  to 
throw  '  warm  gules '  on  her  fair  breast.  Oh  yes,  the 
soul  of  Keats  has  been  here  ;  he  has  described  for  me 
these  very  windows  in  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes — the 
windows 

'  Diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device 
Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes, 

As  are  the  tiger-moth's  deep  damasked  wings  ; 
And  in  the  midst  'mong  thousand  heraldries 
And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  emblazonings 
A  shielded  scutcheon  blushed  with  blood  of  queens 
and  kings.' 

'  THE    ROWLEY   LETTERS.' 


AUTUMN  IN  PARIS 

It  was  a  bitter  day  of  early  autumn  in  Paris  .  .  .  when 
chilling  blasts,  premonitory  of  winter,  are  harder  to 
bear  than  winter  itself.  The  scant  brown  leaves  of  the 
Boulevards  came  swirling  down  with  sharp,  ear- 
stinging  rustle,  at  every  moment  the  branches  out- 
spread against  the  freezing  blue  sky  becoming  barer 


THE  SEASONS  IN  PARIS  227 

of  foliage.  Even  weU-to-do  folks  looked  blue  and 
pinched  with  cold  as  they  emerged  from  their  un- 
warmed  houses,  and  shivered  in  semi-summer  gar- 
ments ;  fires  and  ^\•inter  clothes  are  never  resorted  to 
tin  the  last  moment  in  the  capital  of  the  Empire  of 
Thrift.  Across  suburban  heights  and  open  spaces  the 
wind  swept  with  keener  force ;  that  penetrating,  ice- 
cold  wind  peculiar  to  Paris,  bidding  aU  but  the  most 
robust  to  seek  more  genial  climates.  Perhaps  the 
sparrows,  the  city  urchins  as  some  call  them,  so  frolic- 
some and  joyous  in  sunshine,  feel  such  sudden  cold 
most  of  all.  Dispirited  little  crowds  collect  on  the 
naked  boughs,  too  listless  to  twitter  or  seek  the  hospi- 
tality of  familiar  balconies.  The  sun  shines,  the 
heavens  are  blue,  but  wth  an  edge  of  steel  comes  the 
terrible  hurricane.  .  .  .  Nowhere,  perhaps,  is  this  fore- 
runner of  winter  more  acutely  felt  than  on  the  boule- 
vards bordering  the  deep  cutting  of  the  suburban 
railway.  As  the  trains  follow  each  other  in  swift 
succession,  the  currents  of  air  bring  freshness  during 
the  dog-days.  From  October  to  April  you  may  often 
find  here  the  bleakest,  most  Boreal  promenade  of  all 
Paris. 

M.    BETHAM-EDWARDS. 


PARIS  :  AN  AUTUMN  IMPRESSION 

Paris.  How  delicate  and  brilliant !  The  trees  on  the 
boulevards  still  bright  green,  and  flags  hanging  every- 
where ;  an  open-air,  almost  Southern,  life  lasting  deep 
into  the  briglit  summer  night :  the  mere  ordinary 
illumination  of  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  looking  at  a 
distance  like  an  Aladdin's  palace ;  the  river,  with  its 
red  and  green  lights  reflected  among  the  big  wharf 

15— ^ 


228  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

trees,  and  the  swishing  lit-up  steamers,  giving  the 
impression  of  a  colossal  Fete  de  Nuit. 

But  even  more  charming  was  Paris  in  the  early 
morning,  a  morning  touched  with  autumn  crispness, 
as  I  drove  along  the  quays,  alas  !  to  the  Gare  de  Lyon. 
Such  a  fresh  renovated  morning  ;  the  air  still  hazy,  and 
all  objects,  rippling  poplars  and  shining  stall  roofs, 
hazy,  vague  after  the  night's  refreshment.  Water  was 
being  sprinkled  all  along  the  pavements ;  the  long 
book  boxes  on  the  quays  were  beginning  to  be  openad  ; 
a  breeze,  to  cool  the  coming  day,  was  rising  along  the 
river  trough.  But,  alas,  alas  !  that  day  was  to  be  spent 
by  me  in  hurrying  away  again  out  of  France. 

VERNON   LEE. 

NEW  YEAR'S  DAY  IN  PARIS 

Tableau  de  Jour  de  l'An 

Since  first  the  sun  upon  us  shone, 
A  year  succeeds  the  year  that's  gone. 

This  day  by  universal  law 

So  great,  we'll  try  to  draw, 

Without  a  single  flaw. 
That  all  who  see  this  sketch  may  say, 
*  This  surely  must  be  New-year's  day  !' 

No  sooner  day  begins  to  break 
Than  all  Parisians  are  awake. 

The  bells  of  every  story  ring : 

Here  someone  calls  to  bring 

Some  very  pretty  thing, 
Some  only  visits  come  to  pay, — 
This  surely  must  be  New-year's  day. 


THE  SEASONS  IN  PARIS  229 

As  early  as  the  sun's  first  light, 
Lolotte,  who  has  not  slept  all  night, 
Gets  up  for  all  her  gifts  ;  ha,  ha  ! 
Here  comes  a  thimble  from  mamma, 
And  here  six  francs  from  dear  papa. 
From  grandma  books  to  make  her  pray, — 
This  surely  must  be  New-year's  day.  .  .  . 


To  some  we  haste,  when  we've  no  doubt 
That  when  we  call  they  \\dll  be  out. 
At  once  to  the  concierge  we  go  : 
'  What,  not  at  home,  then  ?'— '  No.' 
'  Alas  !  you  vex  me  so  !' 
We  leave  our  names,  and  walk  away, — ■ 
This  surely  must  be  New-year's  day. 

Now  friends  grown  cool  are  cool  no  more, 
But  seem  as  hearty  as  before  ; 

The  method  is  not  dear — a  pound 

Of  sugar-plums  is  found. 

For  many  a  social  wound. 
The  best  of  remedies  they  say, — 
And  such  they  give  on  New-year's  day.  .  . 

Now  nephews  who'd  inherit  all, 

Upon  their  uncle  love  to  call ; 
To  see  him  well  is  their  delight ; 
But,  with  his  wealth  in  sight. 
They  hug  him,  oh,  so  tight ! — 

They  almost  squeeze  his  life  away, — 

This  surely  must  be  New-year's  day. 


230  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

The  tender  swain  who  does  not  care 
To  buy  fine  trinkets  for  his  fair 

At  Christmas-time,  to  save  expense, 

For  coolness  finds  pretence  ; 

His  love  will  recommence 
Next  month — till  then  he  stops  away — 
This  surely  must  be  New-year's  day. 

When  all  the  handsome  things  are  said, 
And  wishes  uttered,  presents  made, 
Each  visitor  goes  home  at  last ; 
And  when  an  hour  has  past. 
Mourns  money  spent  too  fast, 
And  time  and  trouble  thrown  away, — 
Yes,  surely  this  is  New-year's  day. 

M.   DESAUGIERS. 


PORTRAITS  OF  PLACES 


How  suggestive  to  visit  the  Louvre,  to  cross  the  court,  to 
mount  the  staircase  by  the  track  made  by  a  million  feet  which 
have  trodden  it,  to  open  the  door  ;  to  imagine  the  histories 
of  the  people  I  meet  there,  follow  them  into  their  inner  being, 
picture  their  lives  to  myself  in  a  moment. 

MARIE    BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Paris  is  the  most  artistic  city  in  Europe  ;  and  that  not 
simply  as  the  place  where  pictures  and  statues  are  produced 
in  the  greatest  numbers,  and  architects  find  most  employ- 
ment, but  as  the  place  where  art  sentiment  is  most  generally 
developed,  so  that  it  runs  over  into  a  thousand  minor  channels, 
till  the  life  of  the  capital  is  saturated  with  it. 

PHILIP    GILBERT    HAMERTON. 

Of  all  the  bridges  which  ever  were  built,  the  whole  world 
who  have  passed  over  the  Pont  Neuf  must  own  that  it  is  the 
noblest, — the  finest, — the  grandest, — the  lightest, — the  longest, 
— the  broadest  that  ever  conjoined  land  and  land  together 
upon  the  face  of  the  terraqueous  globe.  .  .  .  The  worst  fault 
which  Divines  and  the  Doctors  of  the  Sorbonne  can  allege 
against  it  is  that,  if  there  is  but  a  cap-full  of  wind  in  or  about 
Paris,  'tis  more  blasphemously  sacre  Dieu'd  there  than  in  any 
other  aperture  of  the  whole  city, — and  with  good  reason,  good 
and  cogent,  Messieurs  ;  for  it  comes  against  you  without 
crying  garde  d'eau,  and  with  such  unpremeditable  puffs  that, 
of  the  few  who  cross  it  with  their  hats  on,  not  one  in  fifty 
but  hazard  two  livres  and  a  half,  which  is  its  full  worth. 

LAURENCE    STERNE, 


THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  NOTRE  DAME 
An  Exterior  View 

Assuredly,  the  church  of  Our  Lady  at  Paris  is  still, 
at  this  day,  a  majestic  and  sublime  edifice.  Yet,  noble 
an  aspect  as  it  has  preserved  in  growing  old,  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  suppress  feelings  of  sorrow  and  indignation  at 
the  numberless  degradations  and  mutilations  which 
the  hand  of  Time  and  that  of  man  have  inflicted  upon 
the  venerable  monument,  regardless  alike  of  Charle- 
magne, who  laid  the  first  stone  of  it,  and  of  Philip- 
Augustus,  who  laid  the  last. 

Upon  the  face  of  this  old  queen  of  the  French 
cathedrals,  beside  each  wrinkle  we  constantly  find  a 
scar  Tempus  edax,  homo  edacior — which  we  would 
willingly  render  thus — Time  is  blind,  but  man  is 
stupid.  .  .  . 

There  are,  assuredly,  few  finer  architectural  pages 
than  that  front  of  that  cathedral,  in  which,  succes- 
sively and  at  once, the  three  receding  pointed  gateways; 
the  decorated  and  indented  band  of  the  twenty-eight 
royal  niches  ;  the  vast  central  circular  window,  flanked 
by  the  two  lateral  ones,  like  the  priest  by  the  deacon 
and  subdeacon  ;  the  lofty  and  slender  gallery  of  tri- 
foHated  arcades,  supporting  a  heavy  platform  upon  its 
light  and  delicate  columns  ;  and  the  two  dark  and 
massive  towers,  with  their  eaves  of  slate — harmonious 
parts  of  one  magnificent  whole — rising  one  above 
another  in  five  gigantic  storeys — unfold  themselves 
to  the  eye,  in  combination  unconfused — with  their  in- 
233 


234  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

numerable  details  of  statuary,  sculpture,  and  carving, 
in  powerful  alliance  with  the  grandeur  of  the  whole — a 
past  symphony  in  stone,  if  we  may  so  express  it — the 
colossal  work  of  a  man  and  of  a  nation — combining 
unity  with  complexity,  like  the  Ihads  and  the  Roman- 
ceros,  to  which  it  is  a  sister  production — the  pro- 
digious result  of  a  draught  upon  the  whole  resources  of 
an  era — in  which  upon  every  stone  is  seen  displayed, 
in  a  hundred  varieties,  the  fancy  of  the  workman  dis- 
ciplined by  the  genius  of  the  artist — a  sort  of  human 
Creation,  in  short,  mighty  and  prolific  as  the  Divine 
Creation,  of  which  it  seems  to  have  caught  the  double 
character — variety  and  eternity.  .  .  . 

But  to  return  to  the  front  of  Notre  Dame,  as  it  still 
appears  to  us  when  we  go  to  gaze  in  pious  admiration 
upon  the  solemn  and  mighty  cathedral,  looking 
terrible,  as  its  chroniclers  express  it — qucB  mole  sud 
terrorem  mciitit  spedantibus.  Three  things  of  import- 
ance are  now  wanting  to  this  front :  first,  the  flight  of 
eleven  steps  by  which  it  formerly  rose  above  the  level 
of  the  ground  ;  then,  the  lower  range  of  statues,  which 
occupied  the  niches  of  the  three  portals  ;  and  lastly, 
the  upper  series,  of  the  twenty-eight  more  ancient 
kings  of  France  which  filled  the  gallery  on  the  first 
storey,  beginning  with  Childebert  and  ending  with 
Philip-Augustus,  holding  in  his  hand  the  imperial  ball. 

As  for  the  flight  of  steps,  it  is  Time  that  has  made  it 
disappear,  by  raising,  with  slow  but  resistless  progress, 
the  level  of  the  ground  in  the  City.  But  wliile  thus 
swallowing  up,  one  after  another,  in  this  mounting  tide 
of  the  pavement  of  Paris,  the  eleven  steps  which  added 
to  the  majestic  elevation  of  the  structure.  Time  has 
given  to  the  church,  perhaps,  yet  more  than  he  has 
taken  from  it ;  for  it  is  he  who  has  spread  over  its  face 


PORTRAITS  OF  PLACES  235 

that  dark  grey  tint  of  centuries  which  makes  of  the 

old  age 

beauty. 


old  age  of  arcliitcctural  monuments  their  season  of 


VICTOR  HUGO. 


NOTRE  DAME 
I. 

Often  at  evening,  when  the  summer  sun 
Floats  like  a  gold  balloon  above  the  roofs, 
I  climb  this  silent  tower  of  Notre  Dame — 
My  sole  companion  Hugo's  deathless  book — 
For  here  all  limits  vanish,  here  my  soul 
Breathes  and  expands,  and  knows  a  wider  life. 
Here  in  the  lustrous,  shimmering  sunset  hour 
Painter  and  poet  both  might  find  new  words, 
New  coloiu"s,  seeing  opened  in  the  sk}^ 
The  jewel-casket  of  Ithuriel — 
Sapphires,  cornelians,  opals  !     Pictures  here 
Are  seen,  so  gorgeous  and  so  rich  in  hue 
That  Titian's  and  Rubens'  colouring 
Grows  pale  in  memory  ;  and  here  are  built 
Misty  cathedrals,  wonderfully  arched, 
Mountains  of  smoke,  fantastic  colonnades — ■ 
All  doubled  in  the  mirror  of  the  Seine.  .  .  . 
Now  comes  a  breeze  which  moulds  the  tattered  clouds 
Into  a  thousand  new  and  changing  forms, 
Mysterious  and  vague ;  the  passing  day. 
As  if  for  his  good-night,  reclothes  the  church 
In  vesture  of  a  richer,  purer  tint. 
Her  tall  twin-towers — those  canticles  in  stone- 
Drawn  with  great  strokes  upon  the  fiery  sky, 
Seem  like  two  mighty  arms  upraised  in  pray'r 


236  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

To  God  by  Paris  ere  she  sinks  to  sleep. 

Around  her  head  the  ancient  Gothic  pile 

A  mystic  halo,  like  Her  Lady,  wears, 

Made  from  the  splendours  of  the  evening  sky. 

Her  ruby-red  rose-windows  seem  round  eyes 

Opening  wide  to  gaze  ;  her  spreading  nave 

Might  be  a  giant-crab  with  moving  claws, 

Or  an  enormous  spider,  spinning  webs 

Of  traceried  light  and  shade,  aerial  threads 

In  delicate  fine  meshes  of  granite  tulle, 

Embroideries  and  laces  of  carven  stone  ! 

Suddenly  in  the  tinted  window-panes 

Touch' d  by  a  warm  kiss  from  the  sun's  red  lips, 

Hundreds  of  blossoms  open  out  and  bloom 

As  if  in  magic  flow'r-beds — emerald. 

Ruby  and  azure,  set  amid  grotesque 

Heraldic  monsters — blossoms  far  more  rich 

And  gay  than  any  grown  by  wizard  hands 

In  old  enchanted  gardens  long  ago. 

On  every  side  are  ancient  histories 

And  legends  writ  in  stone  ;  fantastic  hells 

And  purgatories,  most  devoutly  carved. 

The  pedestals  beside  the  entrance-way 

Lament  their  statues — beaten  down  by  Time, 

Not  by  the  hand  of  man — but  see  around  .  .  . 

Unicorns,  wolves,  and  legendary  birds  ; 

Basilisks,  serpents,  dragons  ;  gargoyle-hounds 

Yelping  at  gutter-ends  ;  misshapen  dwarfs  ; 

Knights  conquering  mighty  giants  ;  avenues 

Of  massive,  clustering  columns  ;  graceful  sheaves 

Of  slender  pillars  ;  myriads  of  saints 

Around  the  three  wide  porches  ;  arabesques 

Hanging  at  every  point  their  fine-wrought  lace 

And  jewelry  ;  trefoils,  pendentives  ;  and 


PORTRAITS  OF  PLACES  237 

Ogives  and  lancet-windows  ;  gables  quaint ; 
Laciniated  spires  ;  frail  pinnacles 
Supporting  crows  and  angels  !  .  .  .     Like  a  rare 
Enamelled  gem  the  great  cathedral  shines. 

II. 

But  ah  !  when  in  the  darkness  you  have  climbed 

The  slender  spiral  staircase,  when  at  last 

You  see  again  the  blue  sky  overhead. 

The  void  above  you,  the  abyss  below, 

Then  are  you  seized  by  dizziness  and  fear 

Sublime,  to  feel  yourself  so  close  to  God. 

E'en  as  a  branch  beneath  a  perching  bird, 

The  tower  shrinks  'neath  the  pressure  of  your  feet, 

Trembles  and  thrills  ;  th'  intoxicated  sky 

Waltzes  and  reels  around  you  ;  the  abyss 

Opens  its  jaws  :  the  imp  of  dizziness, 

Flapping  you  with  his  wings,  leaps  mockingly, 

And  all  the  parapets  shudder  and  shake. 

Weathercocks,  spires,  and  pointed  roofs  move  past 

Your  dazzled  eyes,  outlined  in  silhouette 

Against  the  whirling  sky,  and  in  the  gulf 

Where  the  apocalyptic  raven  wheels. 

Far  down,  lies  Paris,  howling — yet  unheard  ! 

O,  how  the  heart  beats  now  !     To  dominate 

With  feeble  human  eye  from  this  great  height 

A  city  so  immense  !     With  one  swift  glance 

To  embrace  this  mighty  whole,  standing  so  near 

To  Heaven,  and  beholding,  even  as 

A  soaring  mountain-eagle,  far,  far  down 

In  the  depth  of  the  crater's  heart,  the  writhing  smoke, 

The  boiling  lava  !  .  .  .     From  this  parapet — 

Where  the  faint  wind  plays  idly  in  and  out 

Of  the  Arab  trefoils,  whisp'ring  to  itself 


238  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

Exultingly  the  last  words  of  the  psalm 

It  heard  the  seraphs  sing  at  Heaven's  gate — 

To  descry  dimly  'mid  the  stirring  mists 

That  sea  of  billowing  houses,  and  to  hear 

It  murmming  and  moaning  endlessly  ! 

How  wonderful  it  is  !  and  how  subUme  ! 

Tall  chimneys,  crowned  by  smoky  turbans,  trace 

Their  slim  black  profiles  'gainst  the  saffron  sky, 

And  the  clear,  slanting  light  kindles  to  flame 

The  wave-like  roofs,  and  wakes  with  magic  touch 

A  thousand  mirrors  in  the  sleeping  Seine. 

The  water  gleams  e'en  as  a  maiden's  breast 

Sparkling  with  gems.     The  bosom  of  the  Seine 

Pillows  to-night  more  jewels  than  e'er  shone 

Upon  a  queen's  white  neck  in  days  of  old  !  .  .  . 

And  see,  on  every  side,  pinnacles,  towers, 

Domes,  cupolas,  like  helmets  glittering  ! 

Walls,  roofs  of  ev'ry  hue,  chequered  with  light 

And  shade  ;  mazes  of  streets  ;  vast  palaces, 

Stifled  amid  the  sordid  dwellings  which 

Around  their  splendour  cling  Hke  parasites. 

Here,  there,  before,  behind,  to  right,  to  left. 

Houses,  and  yet  more  houses  !     With  her  brush 

Of  fire  the  night  has  painted  them  anew — 

A  hundred  thousand  houses  !  .  .  .  'Neath  this  same 

Horizon,  Tyre  and  Rome  and  Babylon 

Arose  and  sank,  prodigious  masses,  built 

By  man's  own  hand.  .  .  .     Chaos  so  vast  one  might 

Have  thought  created  by  the  Hand  of  God. 

III. 

And  yet,  O  Notre  Dame,  though  Paris  robed 
In  flame-like  vesture  is  so  beautiful. 
Her  beauty  vanishes  if  one  should  leave 


PORTR.\ITS  OF  PLACES  239 

Thy  towers  and  reach  the  level  earth  again. 

All  fades  and  changes  then  ;  nought  grand  is  left 

Save  only  thee.  .  .  .     For  0,  within  thy  waUs 

The  Lord  God  makes  His  Dwelling  !  Through  thy  dark 

And  shadowy  places  Heaven's  angels  move, 

And  hght  thee  with  reflections  from  their  wings. 

O,  world  of  poetry  in  this  world  of  prose  ! 

At  sight  of  thee  a  knocking  at  the  heart 

Is  felt,  a  perfect  faith  makes  pure  the  soul. 

When  evening  damascenes  thee  ^^'ith  her  gold, 

And  in  the  dingy  square  thou,  gleaming,  stand'st 

Like  a  huge  monstrance  on  a  purple  dais, 

I  can  believe  that  by  a  miracle 

Between  thy  towers  the  Lord  might  show  Himself.  .  .  . 

How  small  our  bourgeois  monuments  appear 

Beside  thy  gallic  majesty  !     No  dome, 

No  spire,  however  proud,  can  vie  with  thee — 

Thou  seem'st  indeed  to  strike  against  the  sky  ! 

Who  could  prefer,  e'en  in  pedantic  taste. 

These  poor  bare  Grecian  styles,  these  Pantheons, 

These  antique  fripperies,  perishing  A\'ith  cold, 

And  scarcely  knowing  how  to  stand  upright. 

To  the  demure,  straight  folds  of  thy  chaste  robe  ?  .  .  . 

THEOPIIILE   GAUTIER. 
Translated  by  Eva  M.  Martin. 


THE  STAIRCASE  OF  NOTRE  DAME,   PARIS 

As  one  who,  groping  in  a  narrow  stair. 

Hath  a  strong  sound  of  bells  upon  his  ears, 
Which,  being  at  a  distance  off,  appears 
Quite  close  to  him  because  of  the  pent  air : 
So  with  this  France.     She  stumbles  file  and  square 


240  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

Darkling  and  without  space  for  breath  :  each  one 
Who  hears  the  thunder  says  :  '  It  shall  anon 
Be  in  among  her  ranks  to  scatter  her.' 

This  may  be  ;  and  it  may  be  that  the  storm 
Is  spent  in  rain  upon  the  unscathed  seas. 
Or  wasteth  other  countries  ere  it  die  : 
Till  she, — having  climbed  always  through  the  swarm 
Of  darkness  and  of  hurtling  sound,— from  these 
Shall  step  forth  on  the  light  in  a  still  sky. 

DANTE   GABRIEL   ROSSETTI. 


NOTRE  DAME 

The  church  is  vast ;  its  towering  pride,  its  steeples 

loom  on  high  ; 
The  bristling  stones  with  leaf  and  flower  are  sculp- 
tured wondrously ; 
Above  the  door  that  lovely  window  glows 
Beneath  the  vault  immense  at  evening  swarm 
Figures  of  angel,  saint,  or  demon's  form 

As  oft  a  fearful  world  our  dreams  disclose. 
But  not  the  huge  Cathedral's  height,  nor 

Yet  its  vaults  sublime. 
Nor  porch,  nor  glass,  nor  streaks  of  light. 
Nor  shadows  deep  with  time  ; 
Nor  massy  towers,  that  fascinate  my  eyes ; 
No,  'tis  that  spot — the  mind's  tranquillity — 
Chamber  wherefrom  the  song  mounts  cheerily, 
Placed  like  a  joyful  nest  well  nigh  the  skies. 

Yea !  glorious  is  indeed  the  Church,  yet  lowliness 

dwells  here  ; 
Less  do  I  love  the  lofty  oak  than  mossy  nest  it  bear  ; 


PORTRAITS  OF  PLACES  241 

More  dear  is  meadow  breath  than  stormy  \vind : 
And  when  my  mind  for  meditation's  meant, 
The  seaweed  is  preferred  to  the  shore's  extent, — 

The  swallow  to  the  main  it  leaves  behind. 

VICTOR   HUGO. 

NOTRE  DAME  :  AN  IMPRESSION 

We  had  been  much  disappointed  at  first  by  the  ap- 
parently narrow  Umits  of  the  interior  of  this  famous 
church  ;  but  now,  as  we  made  our  way  round  the 
choir,  gazing  into  chapel  after  chapel,  each  with  its 
painted  window,  its  crucifix,  its  pictures,  its  confes- 
sional, and  afterwards  came  back  into  the  nave, 
where  the  arch  rises  above  arch  to  the  lofty  roof,  we 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  very  sumptuous. 
.  .  .  The  interior  loftiness  of  Notre  Dame,  moreover, 
gives  it  a  sublimity  which  would  swallow  up  anything 
that  might  look  gewgawy  in  its  ornamentation,  were 
we  to  consider  it  window  by  window,  or  pillar  by 
pillar.  It  is  an  advantage  of  these  vast  edifices,  rising 
over  us  and  spreading  about  us  in  such  a  firmamental 
way,  that  we  cannot  spoil  them  by  any  pettiness  of 
our  own.  but  that  they  receive  (or  absorb)  our  petti- 
ness into  their  own  immensity.  Every  Uttle  fantasy 
finds  its  place  and  propriety  in  them,  like  a  flower  on 
the  earth's  broad  bosom.  .  .  . 

NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE. 


IN  NOTRE  DAME 

The  pile  is  full ;  and  ah,  what  splendours  there 
Rush,  in  thick  tumult,  on  the  entering  eye  I 
The  Gothic  shapes,  fantastic,  yet  austere  ; 

16 


242  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

The  altar's  crown  of  seraph's  imagery  ; 
Champion  and  king  that  on  their  tombstones  lie, 
Now  clustered  deep  with  beauty's  living  bloom  ; 
And  glanced  from  shadowy  stall  and  alcove  high, 
Like  new-born  hght,  through  that  mysterious  gloom, 
The  gleam  of  warrior  steel,  the  toss  of  warrior  plume. 

The  organ  peals  ;  at  once,  as  some  vast  wave, 

Bend  to  the  earth  the  mighty  multitude. 

Silent  as  those  pale  emblems  of  the  grave 

In  monumental  marble  round  them  strew' d. 

Low  at  the  altar,  forms  in  cope  and  hood 

Superb  with  gold-wrought  cross  and  diamond  twine, 

As  in  a  pile — alone  with  life  endued. 

Toss  their  untiring  censers  round  the  shrine. 

Where  on  her  throne  of  clouds  the  Virgin  sits  divine. 

GEORGE  CROLY. 


A  SCENE  IN  PARIS 

I  HAD  gone  on  to  Paris.  .  .  .  Strolling  on  the  bright 
quays,  the  subject  of  my  meditations  was  the  ques- 
tion whether  it  is  positively  in  the  essence  and  nature 
of  things,  as  a  certain  school  of  Britons  would  seem 
to  think  it,  that  a  Capital  must  be  ensnared  and  en- 
slaved before  it  can  be  made  beautiful :  when  I  lifted 
up  my  eyes  and  found  that  my  feet,  straying  like  my 
mind,  had  brought  me  to  Notre  Dame. 

That  is  to  say,  Notre  Dame  was  before  me,  but 
there  was  a  large  open  space  between  us.  A  very 
little  while  agone,  I  had  left  that  space  covered  with 
buildings  densely  crowded  ;  and  now  it  was  cleared 
for  some  new  wonder  in  the  way  of  public  Street, 
Place,    Garden,    Fountain,    or   all   four.      Only    the 


PORTRAITS  OF  PLACES  243 

obscene  little  Morgue,  slinking  on  the  brink  of  the 
river  and  soon  to  come  down,  was  left  there,  looking 
mortally  ashamed  of  itself,  and  supremely  wicked. 
I  had  but  glanced  at  this  old  acquaintance,  when  I 
beheld  an  airy  procession  coming  round  in  front  of 
Notre  Dame,  past  the  great  hospital.  It  had  some- 
thing of  a  Masaniello  look,  with  fluttering  striped 
curtains  in  the  midst  of  it,  and  it  came  dancing  round 
the  cathedral  in  the  liveUest  manner. 

I  was  speculating  on  a  marriage  in  Blouse-life,  or 
a  Christening,  or  some  other  domestic  festivity  which 
I  would  see  out,  when  I  found,  from  the  talk  of  a 
quick  rush  of  Blouses  past  me,  that  it  was  a  Body 
coming  to  the  Morgue.  Having  never  before  chanced 
upon  this  initiation,  I  constituted  myself  a  Blouse 
likewise,  and  ran  into  the  Morgue  with  the  rest.  It 
was  a  very  muddy  day,  and  we  took  in  a  quantity  of 
mire  with  us,  and  the  procession  coming  in  upon  our 
heels  brought  a  quantity  more.  The  procession  was 
in  the  highest  spirits,  and  consisted  of  idlers  who  had 
come  with  the  curtained  litter  from  its  starting-place, 
and  of  all  the  reinforcements  it  had  picked  up  by  the 
way.  It  set  the  litter  down  in  the  midst  of  the 
Morgue,  and  then  two  Custodians  proclaimed  aloud 
that  we  were  all '  invited  '  to  go  out.  This  invitation 
was  rendered  the  more  pressing,  if  not  the  more 
flattering,  by  our  being  shoved  out,  and  the  folding- 
gates  being  barred  upon  us. 

Those  who  have  never  seen  the  Morgue,  may  see  it 
perfectly,  by  presenting  to  themselves  an  indifferently 
paved  coach-house  accessible  from  the  street  by  a 
pair  of  folding-gates  ;  on  the  left  of  the  coach-house, 
occupying  its  width,  any  large  London  tailor's  or 
linendraper's    plate-glass    window    reaching    to    the 

16 — 2 


244  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

ground ;  within  the  window,  on  two  rows  of  inclined 
planes,  what  the  coach-house  has  to  show ;  hanging 
above,  like  irregular  stalactites  from  the  roof  of  a 
cave,  a  quantity  of  clothes — the  clothes  of  the  dead 
and  buried  shows  of  the  coach-house. 

CHARLES  DICKENS. 


VENDREDI SAINT 

This  is  Paris,  the  beautiful  city, 
Heaven's  gate  to  the  rich,  to  the  poor  without  pity. 
The  clear  sun  shines  on  the  fair  town's  graces. 
And  on  the  cold  green  of  the  shrunken  river. 
And  the  chill  East  blows,  as  'twould  blow  for  ever, 
On  the  hoUday  groups  with  their  shining  faces. 

For  this  is  the  one  solemn  day  of  the  season. 
When  all  the  swift  march  of  her  gay  unreason 
Pauses  a  while,  and  a  thin  veil  of  sadness 
Half  hides,  from  strange  eyes,  the  old  riot  and  mad- 
ness. 
And  the  churches  are  crowded  with  devotees  holy, 
Rich  and  poor,  saint  and  sinner,  the  great  and  the 
lowly. 

Here  is  a  roofless  palace,  where  gape 

Black  casements  in  rows  without  form  or  shape  : 

A  sordid  ruin,  whose  swift  decay 

Speaks  of  that  terrible  morning  in  May 

When  the  whole  fair  city  was  blood  and  fire. 

And  the  black  smoke  of  ruin  rose  higher  and  higher, 

And  through  the  still  streets,  'neath  the  broad  Spring 

sun. 
Everywhere  murder  and  rapine  were  done  ; 


PORTR.\ITS  OF  PLACES  245 

Women  lurking,  with  torch  in  hand, 
Evil  ej'ed,  sullen,  who  soon  should  stand 
Before  the  sharp  bayonets,  dripping  with  blood. 
And  be  stabbed  through  and  through,  or  shot  dead 
where  they  stood. 

This  is  the  brand-new  Hotel  de  Ville, 

Where  six  hundred  wretches  met  death  in  the  fire  ; 

Ringed  round  with  a  pitiless  cordon  of  steel, 

Not  one  might  escape  that  swift  vengeance.    To-day 

The  ruin,  the  carnage,  are  clean  swept  away  ; 

And  the  sumptuous  facades,  and  the  high  roofs  aspire. 

And,  upon  the  broad  square,  the  white  palace  face 
Looks  down  with  a  placid  and  meaningless  grace, 
Ignoring  the  bloodshed,  the  struggle,  the  sorrow. 
The  doom  that  has  been,  and  that  may  be  to-morrow, 
The  hidden  hatred,  the  mad  endeavour, 
The  strife  that  still  is  and  shall  be  for  ever. 

Here  rise  the  twin-towers  of  Notre  Dame, 
Through  siege,  and  revolt,  and  ruin  the  same. 
See  the  people  in  crowds  pressing  onward,  slowly. 
Along  the  dark  aisles  to  the  altar  holy — 
The  altar,  to-day,  wTapt  in  mourning  and  gloom. 
Since  He  whom  they  worship  lies  dead  in  the  tomb. 

There,  by  a  tiny  acolyte  tended, 
A  round-cheeked  child  in  his  cassock  white. 
Lies  the  tortured  figure  to  which  are  bended 
The  knees  of  the  passers  who  gaze  on  the  sight, 
And  the  people  fall  prostrate,  and  kiss  and  mourn 
The  fair  dead  limbs  which  the  nails  have  torn. 


246  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

And  the  passionate  music  comes  from  the  quire. 
Full  of  soft  chords  of  a  yearning  pity 
The  mournful  voices  accordant  aspire 
To  the  far-off  gates  of  the  Heavenly  City  ■ 
And  the  clear,  keen  alto,  soaring  high  and  higher, 
Mounts  now  a  surging  fountain,  now  a  heavenward 
fire. 

Ay,  eighteen  centuries  after  the  day, 

A  world-worn  populace  kneel  and  pray, 

As  they  pass  by  and  gaze  on  the  limbs  unbroken. 

What  symbol  is  this  ?  of  what  yearnings  the  token  ? 

What  spell  this  that  leads  men  a  part  to  be 

Of  this  old  Judaean  death-agony  ? 

And  I  asked.  Was  it  nought  but  a  Nature  Divine, 

That  for  lower  natures  consented  to  die  ? 

Could  a  greater  than  human  sacrifice 

Still  make  the  tears  spring  to  the  world-dimmed  eye  ? 

One  thought  only  it  was  that  replied,  and  no  other : 

This  man  was  our  brother. 

As  I  pass  from  the  church,  in  the  cold  East  wind. 

Leaving  its  solemn  teachings  behind  : 

Once  again,  on  the  verge  of  the  chill  blue  river, 

The  blighted  buds  on  the  branches  shiver ; 

Here,  again,  stream  the  holiday  groups,  with  delight 

Gaping  in  wonder  at  some  new  sight. 

*Tis  an  open  doorway,  squalid  and  low. 
And  crowds  which  ceaselessly  come  and  go. 
Careless  enough  ere  they  see  the  sight 
Which  leaves  the  gay  faces  pallid  and  white  : 
Something  is  there  which  can  change  their  mood. 
And  check  the  holiday  flow  of  blood. 


PORTRAITS  OF  PLACES  247 

For  the  face  which  they  see  is  the  face  of  Death. 
Strange,  such  a  thing  as  the  ceasing  of  breath 
Should  work  such  miraculous  change  as  here  : 
Turn  the  thing  that  we  love,  to  a  thing  of  fear ; 
Transform  the  sordid,  the  low,  the  mean, 
To  a  phantasm,  pointing  to  Depths  unseen. 

There  they  lie,  the  dead,  unclaimed  and  unknown. 

Each  on  liis  narrow  and  sloping  stone. 

The  chill  water  drips  from  each  to  the  ground  j 

No  other  movement  is  there,  nor  sound. 

With  the  look  which  they  wore  when  they  came  to  die. 

They  gaze  from  blind  eyes  to  the  pitiless  sky. 

No  woman  to-day,  thank  Heaven,  is  here ; 
But  men,  old  for  the  most  part,  and  broken  quite. 
Who,  finding  this  sad  world  a  place  of  fear. 
Have  leapt  forth  hopelessly  into  the  night, 
Bankrupt  of  faith,  without  love,  unfriended. 
Dead- tired  of  Ufe's  comedy  ere  'twas  ended. 

But  here  is  one  younger,  whose  ashy  face 

Bears  some  faint  shadow  of  former  grace. 

What  brought  him  here  ?     Was  it  love's  sharp  fever  ? 

Was  she  worse  than  dead  that  he  bore  to  leave  her  ? 

Or  was  his  young  life,  ere  its  summer  came. 

Burnt  by  Passion's  whirlwinds  as  by  a  flame  ? 

Was  it  Drink  or  Desire,  or  the  die's  sure  shame, 
Which  led  this  poor  truant  to  deep  disgrace  ? 
Was  it  hopeless  misfortune,  unmixed  with  blame, 
That  laid  liim  here  dead,  in  this  dreadful  place  ? 
Ah,  Heaven,  of  these  nineteen  long  centuries. 
Is  the  sole  fruit  tliis  tiling  with  the  sightless  eyes  1 


248  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

Yesterday,  passion  and  struggle  and  strife, 
Hatreds,  it  may  be,  and  anger-choked  breath  ; 
Yesterday,  fear  and  the  burden  of  life  ; 
To-day,  the  cold  ease  and  the  calmness  of  death  : 
And  that  which  strove  and  sinned  and  yielded  there, 
To-day  in  what  hidden  place  of  God's  mysterious  air  ? 

Whatever  he  has  been,  here  now  he  lies. 

Facing  the  stare  of  unpi tying  eyes. 

I  turn  from  the  dank  and  dishonoured  face. 

To  the  fair  dead  Christ  by  His  altar  place. 

And  the  same  thought  replies  to  my  soul,  and  no 

other — 
This,  too,  was  our  brother. 

SIR  LEWIS  MORRIS. 


THE  BASTILLE 

Ye  horrid  towers,  the  abode  of  broken  hearts. 

Ye  dungeons,  and  ye  cages  of  despair, 

That  monarchs  have  supplied  from  age  to  age 

With  music  such  as  suits  their  sovereign  ears. 

The  sighs  and  groans  of  miserable  men  ! 

There's  not  an  English  heart  that  would  not  leap 

To  hear  that  ye  were  fall'n  at  last ;  to  know 

That  even  our  enemies,  so  oft  employed. 

In  forging  chains  for  us,  themselves  were  free. 

For  he  who  values  liberty  confines 

His  zeal  for  her  predominance  within 

No  narrow  bounds  ;  her  cause  engages  him 

Wherever  pleaded.    'Tis  the  cause  of  man. 

There  dwell  the  most  forlorn  of  human  kind, 

Immured  though  unaccused,  condemn'd  untried. 

Cruelly  spared,  and  hopeless  of  escape. 


PORTRAITS  OF  PLACES  249 

There,  like  the  visionary  emblem  seen 

By  him  of  Babylon,  life  stands  a  stump, 

And  filleted  about  with  hoops  of  brass. 

Still  lives,  though  all  his  pleasant  boughs  are  gone 

To  count  the  hour-bell,  and  expect  no  change ; 

And  ever,  as  the  sullen  sound  is  heard, 

Still  to  reflect,  that  though  a  joyless  note 

To  him  whose  moments  all  have  one  dull  pace, 

Ten  thousand  rovers  in  the  world  at  large 

Account  it  music  ;  that  it  summons  some 

To  theatre  or  jocund  feast  or  ball ; 

The  wearied  hireling  finds  it  a  release 

From  labour  ;  and  the  lover,  who  has  chid 

Its  long  delay,  feels  every  welcome  stroke 

Upon  his  heart-strings,  trembling  with  delight : — 

To  fly  for  refuge  from  distracting  thought 

To  such  amusements  as  ingenious  woe 

Contrives,  hard  shifting  and  without  her  tools  : — 

To  read  engraven  on  the  mouldy  walls, 

In  staggering  types,  his  predecessor's  tale, 

A  sad  memorial,  and  subjoin  his  own  : — 

To  turn  purveyor  to  an  overgorged 

And  bloated  spider,  till  the  pamper' d  pest 

Is  made  familiar,  watches  his  approach. 

Comes  at  his  call,  and  serves  him  for  a  friend : — 

To  wear  out  time  in  numbering  to  and  fro 

The  studs  that  thick  emboss  his  iron  door. 

Then  downward  and  then  upward,  then  aslant. 

And  then  alternate,  with  a  sickly  hope 

By  dint  of  change  to  give  his  tasteless  task 

Some  relish,  till  the  sum  exactly  found 

In  all  directions,  he  begins  again  : — 

Oh  comfortless  existence  !  hcmm'd  around 

With  woes,  wliich  who  that  suffers  would  not  kneel 


250  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

And  beg  for  exile,  or  the  pangs  of  death  ? 
That  man  should  thus  encroach  on  fellow  man, 
Abridge  him  of  his  just  and  native  rights. 
Eradicate  him,  tear  him  from  his  hold 
Upon  the  endearments  of  domestic  Ufe 
And  social,  nip  his  fruitfulness  and  use. 
And  doom  him  for  perhaps  a  heedless  word 
To  barrenness,  and  soUtude,  and  tears, 
Moves  indignation,  makes  the  name  of  king 
(Of  king  whom  such  prerogative  can  please) 
As  dreadful  as  the  Manichean  god. 
Adored  through  fear,  strong  only  to  destroy. 

WILLIAM  COWPER. 

ST.  ETIENNE  DU  MONT 

I  USED  very  often,  when  coming  home  from  my  morn- 
ing's work  at  one  of  the  pubUc  institutions  of  Paris, 
to  step  in  at  the  dear  old  church  of  St.  Etienne  du 
Mont.  The  tomb  of  St.  Genevieve,  surrounded  by 
burning  candles  and  votive  tablets,  was  there ;  the 
mural  tablet  of  Jacobus  Benignus  Winslow  was  there  ; 
there  was  a  noble  organ  with  carved  figures ;  the 
pulpit  was  borne  on  the  oaken  shoulders  of  a  stooping 
Samson ;  and  there  was  a  marvellous  staircase  like  a 
coil  of  lace.  These  things  I  mention  from  memory, 
but  not  all  of  them  together  impressed  me  so  much 
as  an  inscription  on  a  small  slab  of  marble  fixed  in 
one  of  the  walls.  It  told  how  this  church  of  St. 
Stephen  was  repaired  and  beautified  in  the  year  i6**, 
and  how,  during  the  celebration  of  its  reopening,  two 
girls  of  the  parish  {filles  de  la  paroisse)  fell  from  the 
gallery,  carrying  a  part  of  the  balustrade  with  them, 
to  the  pavement,  but  by  a  miracle  escaped  uninjured. 


J! 


,U 


IXC 


"'N        Ni>j 


^ 


F    r 


c 


I 


^ 


ST.    KIILNNK    DU    MONT 


PORTRAITS  OF  PLACES  251 

Two  young  girls,  nameless,  but  real  presences  to  my 
imagination,  as  much  as  when  they  came  fluttering 
down  on  the  tiles  with  a  cry  that  outscreamed  the 
sharpest  treble  in  the  Te  Deum.  .  .  .  All  the  crowd 
gone  but  these  two  '  lilies  de  la  paroisse  ' — gone  as 
utterly  as  the  dresses  they  wore,  as  the  shoes  that 
were  on  Ihcir  feet,  as  the  bread  and  meat  that  were 
in  the  market  on  that  day. 

Not  the  great  historical  events,  but  the  personal 
incidents  that  call  up  single  sharp  pictures  of  some 
human  being  in  its  pang  or  struggle,  reach  us  most 
nearly.  Oliver  wendell  holmes. 

THE  TUILERIES 

There  is  a  goodly  Palace  called  the  Tuilleries,  where 
the  Queene  mother  was  wont  to  lie,  and  which  was 
built  by  her  selfe.  The  Palace  is  called  the  Tuilleries, 
because  heretofore  they  used  to  bur'ne  tile  there, 
before  the  Pallace  was  built.  For  this  French  word 
Tuillerie  doth  signifie  in  the  French  a  place  for  burn- 
ing of  tile.  .  .  ,  This  Palace  of  the  Tuilleries  is  a 
most  magnificent  building,  having  in  it  many  sump- 
tuous roomes.  The  chamber  of  Presence  is  exceeding 
beautifuU,  whose  roofe  is  painted  with  many  antique 
workes,  the  sides  and  endes  of  this  chamber  are  curi- 
ously adorned  with  pictures  made  in  oyleworke  upon 
wainscot,  wherein  amongst  many  other  things  the 
nine  Muses  are  excellently  painted.  One  of  the  inner 
chambers  hath  an  exceeding  costly  roofe  gilt,  in 
which  there  is  a  table  made  of  so  many  several! 
colours  of  marble,  and  so  finely  inlayed  with  yvorie, 
that  it  is  thought  to  be  worth  above  five  hundred 
pound.     The  staires  very  faire,  at  the  edge  whereof 


252  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

there  is  a  goodly  raill  of  white  stone,  supported  with 
little  turned  pillers  of  brasse.  The  staires  are  winding, 
having  a  stately  roofe  with  open  spaces  like  windowes 
to  let  in  the  aire.  On  the  south  side  of  the  Palace 
there  is  a  faire  walke  leaded,  but  without  any  roofe, 
where  I  saw  a  goodly  peece  of  Jeate  in  the  wall  of  a 
great  length  and  breadth.  But  it  was  so  hackled  that 
it  seemed  to  be  much  blemished.  There  is  a  most 
pleasant  prospect  from  that  walke  over  the  railes  into 
the  Tuillerie  garden,  which  is  the  fairest  garden  for 
length  of  delectable  walkes  that  ever  I  saw,  but  for 
variety  of  deUcate  fonts  and  springes,  much  inferior 
to  the  King's  garden  at  Fountaine  Beleau.  There  are 
two  walkes  in  this  garden  of  an  equall  length,  each 
being  700  paces  long,  whereof  one  is  so  artificially 
roofed  over  with  timber  worke,  that  the  boughes  of 
the  maple  trees,  wherewith  the  walke  is  on  both  sides 
beset,  doe  reach  up  to  the  toppe  of  the  roofe,  and 
cover  it  clean  over.  This  roofed  walke  hath  sixe 
faire  arbours  advanced  to  a  great  height  like  turrets. 
Also  there  is  a  long  and  spacious  plot  full  of  hearbes 
and  knots  trimly  kept  by  many  persons.  In  this 
garden  there  are  two  fonts  wherein  are  two  auncient 
images  of  great  antiquity  made  of  stone.  Also  there 
is  a  faire  pond  made  foure  square,  and  built  all  of 
stone  together  with  the  bottome,  wherein  there  is 
not  yet  either  fish  or  water,  but  shortly  it  shall  be 
replenished  wdth  both.  ...  At  the  end  of  this  garden 
there  is  an  exceeding  fine  Eccho.  For  I  heard  a  cer- 
taine  French  man  who  sang  very  melodiously  with 
curious  quavers,  sing  with  such  admirable  art,  that 
upon  the  resounding  of  the  Eccho  there  seemed  three 
to  sound  together. 

THOMAS   CORYAT    (1611). 


PORTRAITS  OF  PLACES  253 

THE   TUILERIES  :    ITS  MAGNIFICENCE    AND    ITS 
LAST  DAYS 

On  the  day  of  the  revival  of  the  Empire  the  appear- 
ance of  the  Tuileries  was  very  different  from  what  it 
had  been  on  the  occasion  of  the  reception  held  here 
[in  January,  1852].  .  .  .  Entering  the  palace  on  the 
Carrousel  side,  ascending  the  stairs,  and  turning  to 
the  left  into  the  ante-room  of  the  Salle  des  Travees, 
or  '  Room  of  the  Bays,'  you  found  the  ceiling  deco- 
rated with  the  freshly  gilded  sun  of  Louis  XIV.,  and 
restored  medalUons  of  Wisdom,  Justice,  Science,  and 
Power.  On  either  side  stood  several  short  columns 
supporting  handsome  bronze  and  porphyry  busts  of 
Roman  Emperors.  In  the  ante-room  of  the  Galerie 
de  la  Paix  the  ceiling  displayed  medalUons  of  \\Testling 
children,  on  a  gold  ground,  with  a  central  subject 
which  depicted  Glory  holding  a  palm  and  a  crown, 
and  heralded  by  winged  boys  who  were  blowing  their 
trumpets,  the  work  of  Vauchelet.  In  the  Galerie  de 
la  Paix  itself  the  Ionic  columns  and  pilasters  of  Phili- 
bert  Delorme  had  been  restored  and  their  capitals 
gilded.  Gilding  was  also  scattered  profusely  over  the 
ceiling,  the  doors,  and  the  wainscottings.  The  marble 
statues  of  L' Hospital  and  D'Aguesseau,  set  up  here 
in  Louis  PhiUppe's  time,  had  been  removed,  and  their 
place  taken  by  two  huge  crystal  candelabra,  with  feet 
of  gilded  bronze.  Over  the  mantelpiece  appeared  a 
portrait  of  the  new  Emperor  by  Charles  Louis  Miiller, 
while  at  the  farther  end  of  the  gallery  rose  a  fine 
silver  statue  of  Peace.  A  few  years  later,  after  the 
Crimean  War,  when  the  Grand  Duke  Constantine  of 
Russia  came  to  France  and  was  entertained  at  the 
Tuileries,  he  noticed  this  statue  and  inquired  what  it 


254  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

represented.  It  is  '  Peace — in  silver,'  the  Empress 
Eugenie  replied.  '  Peace,  madam  ?'  the  Grand 
Duke  retorted.  '  Ah,  it  ought  to  have  been  cast  in 
gold.'.  .  . 

On  the  walls  [of  the  famous  Salle  des  Marechaux] 
hung  fourteen  large  portraits  of  Napoleon's  marshals, 
and  below  them  were  the  busts  of  a  score  of  First 
Empire  generals,  set  on  elegant  scahelli.  .  .  .  The 
vaulted  ceiling,  whence  descended  a  huge  chandelier, 
all  gold  and  crystal,  had  become  superb,  intersected 
by  four  gilded  ribs,  which  started  from  the  four 
corners,  where  you  perceived  some  large,  gilded, 
eagle-surmounted  shields,  bearing  the  names  of  the 
victories  gained  by  Napoleon  personally.  Between 
the  ribs  the  ceiling  simulated  a  sky,  and  above  the 
gilded  balconies  running  right  round  the  haU,  a 
balustrade  with  vases  of  flowers  was  painted.  The 
lofty,  imposing  caryatides — plaster  copies  of  Jean 
Goujon's  work — had  been  gilded  from  top  to  bottom, 
and  between  four  of  them  appeared  a  platform  whence 
the  new  Emperor  might  view  the  revels  of  his 
Court.   .  .  . 

No  little  renovation  had  been  bestowed  on  the 
adjoining  Salon  Blanc — a  guard-room  in  the  time  of 
Louis  XIV.  The  grisaille  paintings  by  Nicolas  Loyr, 
representing  an  army  on  the  march,  a  battle,  and  a 
triumph,  had  been  fully  restored.  .  .  .  On  every  side 
were  costly  hangings,  handsome  consoles,  Boule 
cabinets,  superb  candelabra  and  chandeUers — State 
property,  much  of  which  had  formerly  figured  either 
at  the  palace  of  Versailles  or  at  Trianon. 

In  the  Salon  d'Apollon,  Lebrun's  great  painting  of 
*  Phaeton  and  the  Nereids,'  and  Loyr's  ceiling  depict- 
ing '  The  God  of  Day  starting  on  his  career,'  had  been 


PORTRAITS  OF  PLACES  255 

most  carefully  renovated  ;  the  dragons  and  chimerje 
of  the  cornices  were  gilded ;  the  upholstery  was  all 
fine  Gobelins  tapestry ;  there  was  a  handsome  new 
chimneypiece,  and  a  superb  old  clock  in  the  form  of 
a  terrestrial  globe  upheld  by  genii.  Entering  the  next 
room — once  Louis  XIV. 's  '  Chambre  de  Parade  ' — 
one  found,  at  the  further  end,  the  new  Emperor's 
throne  with  its  splendid  canopy  of  crimson  velvet, 
spangled  \\ath  the  gold  bees  of  the  Bonapartes  and 
bordered  with  a  design  of  laurel  leaves.  Overhead 
was  perched  a  great  gold  eagle  with  outspread  wings, 
another  being  embroidered  in  an  escutcheon  on  the 
hangings  behind  the  Chair  of  State.  Throne  and 
hangings  aUke  had  previously  served  on  one  occasion 
only — a  memorable  one — that  of  the  Coronation  of 
Napoleon  I.  at  Notre  Dame,  since  when  they  had 
been  carefully  preserved  at  the  Garde  Meuble.  On 
either  side  of  the  throne  rose  lofty  candelabra, 
bearing  above  their  lights  an  orb  and  a  crown 
— insignia  of  power;  while  on  the  vaulted  ceiling, 
finely  inlaid  with  enamel  work  by  Lemoine,  shone 
the  device  of  the  Grand  Monarque,  Nee  pleuribus 
impar. 

If  the  decorations  of  the  Salon  Blanc  .  .  ,  supplied 
a  very  fair  exarnj^le  of  Louis  XIII.  style,  those  of  the 
so-called  Salon  de  Louis  XIV.,  following  the  Throne- 
room,  furnished  an  example  of  the  Grand  Siecle.  The 
ceiling  was  a  new  and  skilful  copy  of  Lesueur's 
'  Olympus,'  by  Lesurgues,  while  the  panel  paintings 
were  grotesques  by  the  two  Le  Moines — all  delicately 
restored.  Three  pictures  were  now  hung  in  this  room, 
one  a  line  portrait  of  Louis  XIV.  by  Rigaud,  another 
a  good  copy  of  Gerard's  Pliilip  of  Anjou,  and  the 
third  a  copy  of  Mignard's  painting  of  Anne  of  Austria 


256  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

giving  instructions  to  her  young  son.  On  the  east 
side  of  the  room  was  a  door  leading  into  Louis  XIV.'s 
so-called  winter  apartments — first  the  cabinet  of  his 
valet-de-chambre,  secondly  his  own  bedroom,  and 
thirdly  his  private  study  or  library.  The  King's  bed- 
room had  afterwards  been  that  of  Napoleon  I., 
Louis  XVHL,  and  Charles  X.,  and  the  decorations 
were  not  of  Louis  XIV.'s  time,  having  been  much 
modified  early  in  the  nineteenth  century,  in  such  wise 
that  they  supplied  a  free  example  of  the  so-called 
Empire  style.  On  the  ceiling,  painted  in  grisaille, 
appeared  Jupiter,  Apollo,  Mars,  and  Minerva,  amid 
a  number  of  genii  and  griffins.  .  .  . 

The  bedroom  and  the  dressing-room  of  Queen 
Marie  Therese,  wife  of  Louis  XIV.,  became  in  the 
first  Napoleon's  time  his  study  and  his  secretary's 
workroom.  .  .  .  The  paintings  were  chiefly  by  Jean 
Nocret  and  Jacques  Fouquieres.  Minerva  was  de- 
picted on  the  ceiling  of  the  dressing-room,  above  the 
doors  of  which  appeared  subjects  showing  women  at 
work  on  embroidery,  tapestry,  and  so  forth  ;  while 
over  the  mantelpiece  Minerva  again  rose  up,  attended 
this  time  by  Neptune.  Beside  the  chimneypiece  was 
painted  a  fine  figure  of  Immortahty,  in  front  of  it 
you  saw  Vigilance,  then  Minerva  at  her  toilet ;  while 
on  the  window  side  History  was  symbolized.  Mercury, 
the  Arts  and  Sciences,  Wisdom,  and  many  other  alle- 
gorical figures,  as  well  as  the  gold  sun  of  Louis  XIV., 
adorned  the  adjoining  bedroom  of  Queen  Marie 
Therese,  whence  you  passed  into  her  salon,  later  that 
of  Napoleon  when  he  was  First  Consul.  Here  the 
Louis  XIV.  style  was  more  marked  than  in  the  pre- 
vious apartments.  Fine  Gobelins  tapestry  covered 
tlie  panels,  and  paintings  by  Nocret — Glory,  Fame, 


PORTRAITS  OF  PLACES  257 

and  once  again  Minerva,  this  time  carried  aloft  by 
her  priestesses — adorned  the  ceiling  and  the  car- 
touches above  the  doors.  Similar  in  style  was  the 
decoration  of  the  Queen's  ante-room,  the  subjects 
here  symbolized  by  Nocret  being  Wisdom,  Peace, 
and  Architecture,  to  which  were  added  some  land- 
scapes by  Fouquieres.  .  .  .  Unhappily  everything  was 
destined  to  perish  at  the  fall  of  the  Commune  in 
1871. 

It  was  about  ten  o'clock  when  all  was  ready.  The 
Versaillese  seldom,  if  ever,  stirred  after  dusk  during 
that  terrible  week.  They  remained  on  the  positions 
they  had  gained  during  the  day.  Had  they  been 
quicker  in  their  movements,  the  week  might  have 
been  reduced  to  three  days,  and  many  of  the  buildings 
of  Paris  might  have  been  saved.  On  the  other  hand, 
no  doubt,  the  casualties  would  have  been  much  more 
numerous.  On  the  evening  of  May  23  the  National 
Guards  still  occupied  the  garden  of  the  Tuileries,  the 
barricade  near  the  ditch,  and  the  quay  alongside  the 
Seine.  They  were  spread  there  eyi  tirailleurs,  ready 
to  oppose  the  advance  of  the  Versaillese,  should  the 
latter  attempt  to  push  forward  beyond  the  corner  of 
the  Rue  St.  Florentin.  Others,  too,  were  strongly 
entrenched  in  the  Ministry  of  Finances  in  the  Rue 
de  Rivoli,  and  defended  it  throughout  the  night, 
every  effort  being  made  to  check  the  advance  of  the 
troops  until  the  conflagration  of  the  Tuileries  should 
be  beyond  remedy.  As  for  Bergeret  and  his  staff, 
they  retired  to  the  Louvre  barracks,  and  it  was 
there,  about  ten  o'clock  or  a  little  later,  that  Benot 
joined  them,  announcing  tliat  the  Tuileries  was 
alight. 

17 


258  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

The  whole  company  sat  down  to  supper,  ate  well 
and  drank  hea\dly.  Towards  midnight,  after  coffee 
had  been  served,  Benot  invited  the  others  to  admire 
his  work.  They  went  out  on  to  the  terrace  of  the 
Louvre  and  saw  the  Tuileries  blazing.  Flames  were 
already  darting  from  the  windows  of  the  great  fagade 
— over  twelve  hundred  feet  in  length  ;  and  if  at  times 
there  came  a  pause  in  the  violence  of  the  fire,  the 
ruddy  glow  wliich  every  opening  of  the  building 
revealed  was  a  sufficient  sign  that  the  conflagration 
had  by  no  means  subsided.  At  last  a  score  of  tongues 
of  flame  leapt  suddenly  through  the  collapsing  roof, 
reddening  the  great  canopy  of  smoke  which  hovered 
above  the  pile.  The  flames  seemed  to  travel  from 
either  end  of  the  palace  towards  the  central  cupola- 
crowned  pavilion,  where  Benot,  an  artist  in  his  way, 
had  designedly  placed  most  of  his  combustibles  and 
explosives  ;  and  at  about  two  o'clock  in  the  morning 
Bergeret's  officers  were  startled,  almost  alarmed,  by 
a  terrific  explosion  which  shook  all  the  surrounding 
district.  Many  rushed  to  ascertain  what  had  hap- 
pened, and  on  facing  the  Tuileries,  they  saw  that  the 
flames  were  now  rising  in  a  great  sheaf  from  the 
central  pavilion,  whose  cupola  had  been  thrown  into 
the  air,  whence  it  fell  in  blazing  fragments,  while 
milUons  of  sparks  rose,  rained,  or  rushed  hither  and 
thither,  imparting  to  the  awful  spectacle  much  the 
aspect  of  a  bouquet  of  fireworks,  such  as  usually 
terminates  a  great  pyrotechnical  display.  .  .  . 

Despite  all  the  magnificence,  all  the  festivities, 
the  Tuileries  witnessed,  it  was  ever  a  fatal  edifice 
^a  Palace  of  Doom  for  both  Monarchy  and 
Empire. 

LE   PETIT   HOMME    ROUGE. 


PORTRAITS  OF  PLACES  259 

LA  SAINTE  CHAPELLE 
Like  to  a  Virgin  Queen  in  robes  of  state, 

August  in  presence,  delicately  fair 
As  the  fair  girl  that  by  her  side  doth  wait 

Uncrown'd  save  by  her  golden-tressed  hair  ■ 
Regal  in  splendour,  yet  withal  as  chaste 

As  among  flowers  the  lily  :  as  though  some  power 
The  treasures  of  the  whole  world  there  had  placed 

To  build  again  Medea's  blissful  bower, 
With  new  enchantments.    Soft  the  sunlight  falls 

On  the  inlay'd  floor  ;  the  groined  roof  hangs  dim 
In  its  own  splendour  ;  on  the  emblazoned  walls 

Glow  shapes  celestial,  winged  cherubim. 
With  heraldies  of  heaven,  occult,  unknown — 
And,  in  the  midst,  One,  on  a  sapphire  throne. 

SIR   WYKE    BAYLISS. 
THE  MADELEINE 

Approaching  the  Madeleine,  we  found  it  a  most 
beautiful  church,  that  might  have  been  adapted  from 
Heathenism  to  Catholicism  ;  for  on  each  side  there  is 
a  range  of  magnificent  pillars,  unequalled,  except  by 
those  of  the  Parthenon.  .  .  .  Glorious  and  gorgeous 
is  the  Madeleine.  The  entrance  to  the  nave  is  beneath 
a  most  stately  arch  ;  and  three  arches  of  equal  height 
open  from  the  nave  to  the  side  aisles  ;  and  at  the  end 
of  the  nave  is  another  great  arch,  rising,  with  a 
vaulted  dome,  over  the  high  altar.  The  pillars  sup- 
porting these  arches  are  Corinthian,  with  richly  sculp- 
tured capitals  ;  and  w  herever  gilding  might  adorn  the 
church,  it  is  lavished  like  sunshine  ;  and  within  the 
sweeps  of  the  arches  there  are  fresco  paintings  of 
sacred  subjects,  and  a  beautiful  picture  covers  the 

17—2 


26o  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

hollow  of  the  vault  over  the  altar  :  all  this,  besides 
much  sculpture ;  and  especially  a  group  above  and 
around  the  high  altar,  representing  the  Magdalen, 
smiling  down  upon  angels  and  archangels,  some  of 
whom  are  kneeling,  and  shadowing  themselves  with 
their  heavy  marble  wings.  There  is  no  such  thing  as 
making  my  page  glow  with  the  most  distant  idea  of 
the  magnificence  of  this  church,  in  its  details  and  in 
its  whole.  .  .  .  Bonaparte  contemplated  transforming 
it  into  a  Temple  of  Victory,  or  building  it  anew  as 
one.  The  restored  Bourbon  remade  it  into  a  church  ; 
but  it  still  has  a  heathenish  look,  and  will  never 

°^^  ^'■'  NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE. 

ON  THE  CHURCH  OF  THE  MADELEINE  AT  PARIS 
I. 

The  Attic  temple  whose  majestic  room 

Contained  the  presence  of  Olympian  Jove, 

With  smooth  Hymettus  round  it  and  above, 

Softening  the  splendour  by  a  sober  bloom. 

Is  yielding  fast  to  Time's  irreverent  doom  ; 

While  on  the  then  barbarian  banks  of  Seine 

That  nobler  type  is  realized  again 

In  perfect  form,  and  delicate — to  whom  ? 

To  a  poor  Syrian  girl,  of  lowliest  name, 

A  helpless  creature,  pitiful  and  frail 

As  ever  wore  her  life  in  sin  and  shame, — 

Of  whom  all  history  has  this  single  tale, — 

'  She  loved  the  Christ,  she  wept  beside  His  grave. 

And  He,  for  that  love's  sake,  all  else  forgave.' 

11. 
If  one,  with  prescient  soul  to  understand 
The  working  of  this  world  beyond  the  day 


PORTRAITS  OF  PLACES  261 

Of  his  small  life,  had  taken  by  the  hand 

That  wanton  daughter  of  old  Magdala  ; 

And  told  her  that  the  time  was  ripe  to  come 

When  she,  thus  base  among  the  base,  should  be 

More  served  than  all  the  gods  of  Greece  and  Rome, 

More  honoured  in  her  holy  memory, — 

How  would  not  men  have  mocked  and  she  have 

scorned 
The  fond  Diviner  ? — Plausible  excuse 
Had  been  for  them,  all  moulded  to  one  use 
Of  feeling  and  of  thought,  but  We  are  warned 
By  such  ensamples  to  distrust  the  sense 
Of  Custom  proud  and  bold  Experience. 

III. 
Thanks  to  that  element  of  heavenly  things, 
That  did  come  down  to  earth,  and  there  confound 
Most  sacred  thoughts  with  names  of  usual  sound, 
And  homeliest  hfe  with  all  a  poet  sings. 
The  proud  Ideas  that  had  ruled  and  bound 
Our  moral  nature  were  no  longer  kings. 
Old  Power  grew  faint  and  shed  his  eagle-wings, 
And  grey  Philosophy  was  half  uncrowned. 
Love,  Pleasure's  child,  betrothed  herself  to  Pain  ;— 
Weakness,  and  Poverty,  and  Self-disdain, 
And  tranquil  sufferance  of  repeated  wrongs, 
Became  adorable  ; — Fame  gave  her  tongues, 
And  Faith  her  hearts  to  objects  all  as  low 
As  this  lorn  child  of  infamy  and  woe. 

RICHARD  MONXKTON   MILNES   (LORD   IIOUGIITON). 

THE  LOUVRE 
I  WENT  .-.  .  to  the  King's  Palace  which  is  called  the 
Louvre  :  this  was  first  built  by  Philip  Augustus,  King 


262  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

of  France,  about  the  yeare  1214,  and  being  afterward 
ruined  by  time,  was  most  beautifully  repaired  by 
Henry  the  second.  Therein  I  observed  these  par- 
ticulars :  A  faire  quadrangular  Court,  with  goodly 
lodgings  about  it  foure  stories  high,  whose  outside  is 
exquisitely  wrought  with  white  free-stone,  and  decked 
with  many  stately  pillars  and  beautiful  Images  made 
of  the  same  stone.  As  we  go  up  towards  the  haU  there 
are  three  or  foure  paire  of  staires,  whereof  one  paire 
is  passing  faire,  consisting  of  very  many  greeses.  The 
roofe  over  these  staires  is  exceedingly  beautifuU,  being 
made  ex  fornicato  seu  concamerato  opera,  vaulted 
with  very  sumptuous  frettings  or  chamferings,  where- 
in the  formes  of  clusters  of  grapes  and  many  other 
things  are  most  excellently  contrived.  The  great 
chamber  is  very  long,  broad  and  high,  having  a  gilt 
roofe  and  richly  embossed :  the  next  chamber  within 
it,  which  is  the  Presence,  is  very  faire,  being  adorned 
with  a  sumptuous  roofe,  which  though  it  be  made 
but  of  timber  worke,  yet  it  is  exceeding  richly  gilt, 
and  with  that  exquisite  art,  that  a  stranger  upon  the 
first  view  thereof,  would  imagine  it  were  either  latten 
or  beaten  gold. 

I  was  also  in  a  chamber  wherein  Queene  Mary  doth 
often  He,  where  I  saw  a  certaine  kinde  of  raile  which 
encompasseth  the  place  where  her  bedde  is  wont  to 
be,  having  little  pretty  pillars  richly  gilt.  After  this 
I  went  into  a  place  which  for  such  a  kinde  of  roome 
exceUeth  in  my  opinion,  not  only  all  those  that  are 
now  in  the  world,  but  also  aU  whatsoever  that  ever 
were  since  the  creation  thereof,  even  a  gaUery,  a  per- 
fect description  whereof  will  require  a  large  volume. 
It  is  divided  into  three  parts,  two  sides  at  both  the 
ends,  and  one  very  large  and  spacious  walke.    One  of 


PORTRAITS  OF  PLACES  263 

the  sides  when  I  was  there,  was  almost  ended,  having 
in  it  many  goodly  pictures  of  some  of  the  Kings  and 
Queenes  of  France,  made  most  exactly  in  wainscot, 
and  drawen  out  very  lively  in  oyle  workes  upon  the 
same.  The  roofe  of  most  glittering  and  adinirable 
beauty,  wherein  is  much  antique  worke,  with  the 
picture  of  God  and  the  Angels,  the  Sunne,  the  Moone, 
the  Starres,  the  Planets,  and  other  Celcstiall  signes. 
Yea,  so  unspeakably  faire  it  is,  that  a  man  can 
hardly  comprehend  it  in  his  minde,  that  hath  not 
first  scene  it  with  his  bodily  eyes.  The  long  gallery 
hath  at  the  entrance  thereof  a  goodly  dore,  garnished 
with  foure  very  sumptuous  marble  pillers  of  a  flesh 
colour,  interlaced  with  some  veines  of  white.  It  is  in 
breadth  about  ten  of  my  paces,  and  above  five  hun- 
dred in  length,  which  maketh  at  the  least  half  a  mile. 
There  are  faire  windowcs.  .  .  .  On  the  west  side  of 
the  gallery  there  is  a  most  beautifull  garden  divided 
into  eight  severall  knots. 

THOMAS   CORY  AT    (1611). 

h6tel  DE  CLUNY 

Although  the  Hotel  de  Cluny  has  not  been  trans- 
ferred to  another  site  like  the  Maison  de  Francois  ler, 
it  has  been  almost  as  wonderfully  preserved.  It  was 
built  at  first  by  the  Abbots  of  Cluny,  but  not  much 
used  by  them.  In  the  early  part  of  the  last  century 
it  was  private  property  let  in  tenements  to  a  number 
of  tenants.  It  now  belongs  to  the  State.  .  .  .  Thus 
it  has  most  happily  come  to  pass  that  in  the  midst  of 
a  very  busy  part  of  Paris,  close  to  the  great  Boule 
vards  of  St.  Germain  and  St.  Michel,  there  is  a  safe 
little  island  of  the  past  amidst  the  noisy  torrents  of 


264  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

the  present.  I  know  nothing  more  delightful  in  Paris 
than  the  peace  of  the  Hotel  de  Cluny  ;  and  what  a 
wonderful  piece  of  good  luck  it  is  that  this  beautiful 
relic  of  the  fifteenth  century  should  have  been  quite 
close  to  the  most  interesting  remnant  of  Roman  Paris, 
so  that  both  can  be  kept  together  in  the  same  safe 
enclosure !  ,  .  .  I  do  not  know  of  any  kind  of 
domestic  architecture  quite  so  satisfactory  as  that 
where  the  house  is  isolated.  For  street  architecture 
the  modern  Parisian  is  practical^  much  better  ;  but 
for  a  builder  who  has  but  one  dwelling  to  erect,  and 
is  not  restricted  to  ground-space,  this  fifteenth-cen- 
tury architecture  is  the  one  that  best  unites  a  homely 
expression  with  beauty  and  convenience.  The  walls 
are  not  too  high,  the  roof  has  a  comfortable  appear- 
ance, the  building  is  of  ample  size  yet  not  wearisome 
in  vastness  ;  it  is  not  a  proud  palace,  but  a  beautiful 
home  that  one  might  live  in  habitually  and  love  with 
intense  affection.  The  windows  in  the  walls  are  squcire- 
headed  with  mullions,  transoms,  and  weather  mould- 
ings that  connect  the  windows  together.  There  is  a 
pierced  parapet,  and  the  dormer-windows  are  beauti- 
fully finished  with  pinnacles  and  finials.  There  are 
several  staircase  turrets.  .  .  .  The  Louvre  is  the 
place  to  study  sculpture,  but  the  lover  of  carving  (in 
stone,  wood,  and  ivory)  should  go  to  the  Hotel  Cluny. 

PHILIP   GILBERT  HAMERTON. 


THE  BOIS  DE  BOULOGNE 

We  drove  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  that  limitless  park, 
with  its  forests,  its  lakes,  its  cascades,  and  its  broad 
avenues.     There  were  thousands  upon  thousands  of 


PORTRAITS  OF  PLACES  265 

vehicles  abroad,  and  the  scene  was  full  of  life  and 
gaiety.  There  were  very  common  hacks,  with  father 
and  mother  and  all  the  children  in  them  ;  conspicuous 
little  open  carriages  with  celebrated  ladies  of  ques- 
tionable reputation  in  them  ;  there  were  dukes  and 
duchesses  abroad,  with  gorgeous  footmen  perched 
behind,  and  equally  gorgeous  outriders  perched  on 
each  of  the  six  horses  ;  there  were  blue  and  silver,  and 
green  and  gold,  and  pink  and  black,  and  all  sorts  and 
descriptions  of  stunning  and  startling  liveries  out,  and 
I  almost  yearned  to  be  a  flunkey  myself,  for  the  sake 
of  the  fine  clothes. 

But  presently  the  Emperor  came  along,  and  he  out- 
shone them  all.  He  was  preceded  by  a  body-guard 
of  gentlemen  on  horseback  in  showy  uniforms,  his 
carriage-horses  (there  appeared  to  be  somewhere  in 
the  remote  neighbourhood  of  a  thousand  of  them) 
were  bestridden  by  gallant-looking  fellows,  also  in 
stylish  uniforms,  and  after  the  carriage  followed 
another  detachment  of  body-guards.  Everybody  got 
out  of  the  way ;  everybody  bowed  to  the  Em- 
peror. .  .  . 

I  will  not  describe  the  Bois  de  Boulogne.  I  cannot 
do  it.  It  is  simply  a  beautiful,  cultivated,  endless, 
wonderful  wilderness.    It  is  an  enchanting  place. 

M-\RK   TWAIN. 


S.\L\T  CLOUD 

Soft  spread  the  southern  summer  night 

Her  veil  of  darksome  blue  ; 
Ten  thousand  stars  combine  to  light 

The  terrace  of  Saint  Cloud. 


266  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

The  evening  breezes  gently  sighed, 

Like  breath  of  lover  true. 
Bewailing  the  deserted  pride 

And  wreck  of  sweet  Saint  Cloud. 

The  drum's  deep  roll  was  heard  afar, 

The  bugle  wildly  blew 
Good-night  to  Hulan  and  Hussar, 

That  garrison  Saint  Cloud. 

The  startled  Naiads  from  the  shade 
With  broken  urns  withdrew, 

And  silenced  was  that  proud  cascade. 
The  glory  of  Saint  Cloud. 

We  sate  upon  its  steps  of  stone, 

Nor  could  its  silence  rue, 
When  waked,  to  music  of  our  own, 

The  echoes  of  Saint  Cloud. 

Slow  Seine  might  hear  each  lovely  note 

Fall  light  as  summer  dew. 
While  through  the  moonless  air  they  float, 

Prolong'd  from  fair  Saint  Cloud. 

And  sure  a  melody  more  sweet 

His  waters  never  knew. 
Though  music's  self  was  wont  to  meet 

With  Princes  at  Saint  Cloud. 

Nor  then,  with  more  delighted  ear. 

The  circle  round  him  drew 
Than  ours,  when  gathered  round  to  hear 

Our  songstress  at  Saint  Cloud. 


PORTRAITS  OF  PLACES  2^7 

Few  happy  hours  poor  mortals  pass, — 

Then  give  those  hours  their  due. 
And  rank  among  the  foremost  class 

Our  evenings  at  Saint  Cloud. 

SIR   WALTER    SCOTT. 


BY  THE  SIDE  OF  THE  SEINE 

Very  old  are  the  books  on  the  quays ;  very  old  are 
the  bookworms  who  examine  them.  Treasures,  it  is 
said,  have  been  discovered  in  these  boxes ;  many  a 
superannuated  sage  is  supposed  to  have  carried  off 
volumes  that  boasted  infinite  age,  and  bore  some 
precious  dedication.  Yet  you  may  dig  in  a  box  for 
hours  without  encountering  anything  more  remark- 
able than  a  grammar  or  a  book  of  psalms  or  a  series 
of  sermons.  .  .  .  Opposite,  on  a  bench,  sit  the  book- 
sellers reading  their  paper,  smoking  their  pipes,  staring 
at  the  omnibuses  that  rattle  across  the  bridges  of  the 
Seine. 

No  one  is  pestered  to  buy  a  book ;  you  may  turn 
over  an  entire  box  and  then  pass  on  to  the  next.  No 
one  regards  you  with  suspicion;  you  may  finger  a 
volume  and  pore  over  it  as  long  as  you  please.  Should 
you  covet  something  you  must  take  it  over  to  the 
bench  opposite  and  demand  the  price.  Perhaps  j'ou 
are  overwhelmed  l:)y  the  bookseller's  extravagant 
reply,  and  say  as  much  ;  but  he,  unless  conscious  of 
Ills  fault,  bids  you  to  either  buy  the  book  or  put  it 
back.  No  one  irritates  :  not  even  the  impudent  young 
painter  who  scoffs  at  his  stock  of  prints,  not  even  the 
dim-eyed  old  gentleman  who  has  paid  exhaustive 
attention  to  a  stout  volume  every  morning  for  months. 
No  doubt  he  pities  him,  and  so  lets  him  read.     The 


268  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

old  gentleman  is  shabby,  and  not  rich  enough  to  buy 
the  book.  He  can  only  read  it  there,  and  is  allowed 
to — line  by  line,  page  after  page,  chapter  upon  chap- 
ter. Another  sage :  older,  shabbier,  this  one.  He, 
too,  is  a  regular  visitor.  He  also  has  his  book.  It 
was  his  own  once  ;  it  had  rested  on  his  shelves  ;  it  had 
been  beneath  his  lamp.  To  own  it,  the  sage  had  saved, 
deprived  himself  of  necessaries.  Then  one  morning 
he  brought  the  hoard  down  to  the  bookseller,  and 
exchanged  it  for  the  book,  and  put  the  prize  under 
his  arm,  and  hugged  it  as  he  tottered  off.  A  week 
later  he  returned  to  the  quays  thinner,  shabbier  than 
ever,  and  sold  the  book,  and  asked  where  it  would 
be  placed,  and  reappeared  next  morning  to  continue 
it,  and  every  morning  afterwards.  A  third  sage  : 
somewhat  confused,  haunted  by  the  delusion  that  all 
old  volumes  are  treasures.  He  buys  frequently,  not 
expensive  books,  but  those  at  sixty  centimes  or  one 
franc  ;  he  is  not  difficult  to  please  so  long  as  the  pages 
are  yellow. 

JOHN   F.   MACDONALD. 
Pi:RE  LACHAISE 

Beautiful  city  of  the  dead !  thou  stand'st 
Ever  amid  the  bloom  of  sunny  skies 
And  blush  of  odours,  and  the  stars  of  heaven 
Look,  with  a  mild  and  holy  eloquence. 
Upon  thee,  realm  of  silence  !    Diamond  dew 
And  vernal  rain  and  sunlight  and  sweet  airs 
For  ever  visit  thee  ;  and  morn  and  eve 
Dawn  first  and  linger  longest  on  thy  tombs 
Crowned  with  their  wreaths  of  love  and  rendering 
back 


il    Al     M  >l.  I  Alkl. 


PORTRAITS  OF  PLACES  269 

From  their  wrought  columns  all  the  glorious  beams. 

That  herald  morn  or  bathe  in  trembling  light 

The  calm  and  holy  brow  of  shadowy  eve. 

Empire  of  pallid  shades  !  though  thou  art  near 

The  noisy  traffic  and  thronged  intercourse 

Of  man,  yet  stillness  sleeps,  with  drooping  eyes 

And  meditative  brow,  for  ever  round 

Thy  bright  and  sunny  borders  ;  and  the  trees. 

That  shadow  thy  fair  monuments,  are  green 

Like  hope  that  watches  o'er  the  dead,  or  love 

That  crowns  their  memories  ;  and  lonely  birds 

Lift  up  their  simple  songs  amid  the  boughs. 

And  with  a  gentle  voice,  wail  o'er  the  lost, 

The  gifted  and  the  beautiful,  as  they 

Were  parted  spirits  hovering  o'er  dead  forms 

Till  judgment  summons  earth  to  its  account. 

Here  'tis  bliss  to  wander,  when  the  clouds 
Paint  the  pale  azure,  scattering  o'er  the  scene 
Sunlight  and  shadow,  mingled  yet  distinct, 
And  the  broad  olive  leaves,  Uke  human  sighs. 
Answer  the  whispering  zephyr,  and  soft  buds 
Unfold  their  hearts  to  the  sweet  west  wind's  kiss, 
And  Nature  dwells  in  solitude,  like  all 
Who  sleep  in  silence  here,  their  names  and  deeds 
Living  in  sorrow's  verdant  memory.  .  .  . 

Beautiful  city  of  the  dead  !  to  sleep 
Amid  thy  shadowed  solitudes,  thy  flowers, 
Thy  greenness  and  thy  beauty,  where  the  voice. 
Alone  heard,  whispers  love — the  greenwood  choirs 
Sing  'mid  the  stirring  leaves — were  very  bliss 
Unto  the  weary  heart  and  wasted  mind, 
Broken  in  the  world's  warfare,  yet  still  doomed 
To  bear  a  brow  undaunted  !    Oh,  it  were 
A  tranquil  and  a  holy  dwelling-place 


270  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

To  those  who  deeply  love  but  love  in  vain, 
To  disappointed  hopes  and  baffled  aims 
And  persecuted  youth.    How  sweet  the  sleep 
Of  such  as  dream  not — wake  not — feel  not  here 
Beneath  the  starlight  skies  and  flowery  earth, 
'Mid  the  green  solitudes  of  Pere  Lachaise  ! 

S.    L.    FAIRFIELD. 

PfeRE  LACHAISE 

The  cemetery  of  Pere  Lachaise  is  the  Westminster 
Abbey  of  Paris.  Both  are  the  dwellings  of  the  dead  ; 
but  in  one  they  repose  in  green  alleys  and  beneath 
the  open  sky,  in  the  other  their  resting-place  is  in  the 
shadowy  aisle,  and  beneath  the  dim  arches  of  an 
ancient  abbey.  One  is  a  temple  of  nature  ;  the  other 
a  temple  of  art.  In  one,  the  soft  melancholy  of  the 
scene  is  rendered  still  more  touching  by  the  warble 
of  birds  and  the  shade  of  trees,  and  the  grave  receives 
the  gentle  visit  of  the  sunshine  and  the  shower  :  in 
the  other,  no  sound  but  the  passing  footfall  breaks 
the  silence  of  the  place  ;  the  twilight  steals  in  through 
high  and  dusky  windows ;  and  the  damps  of  the 
gloomy  vault  lie  heavy  on  the  heart,  and  leave  their 
stain  upon  the  mouldering  tracery  of  the  tom^b. 

Pere  Lachaise  stands  just  beyond  the  Barriere 
d'Aulney,  on  a  hiU-side,  looking  towards  the  city. 
Numerous  gravel-walks,  winding  through  shady 
avenues  and  between  marble  monuments,  lead  up 
from  the  principal  entrance  to  a  chapel  on  the  sum- 
mit. There  is  hardly  a  grave  that  has  not  its  little 
enclosure  planted  with  shrubbery ;  and  a  thick  mass 
of  foliage  half  conceals  each  funeral  stone.  The  sigh- 
ing of  the  wind,  as  the  branches  rise  and  fall  upon  it, 


PORTRAITS  OF  PLACES  VJ\ 

the  occasional  note  of  a  bird  among  the  trees,  and 
the  shifting  of  light  and  shade  upon  the  tombs 
beneath,  have  a  soothing  effect  upon  the  mind ;  and 
I  doubt  whether  anyone  can  enter  that  enclosure 
where  repose  the  dust  and  ashes  of  so  many  great 
and  good  men  without  feeling  the  religion  of  the 
place  steal  over  him,  and  seeing  something  of  the 
dark  and  gloomy  expression  pass  off  from  the  stern 
countenance  of  death. 

It  was  near  the  close  of  a  bright  summer  afternoon 
that  I  visited  this  celebrated  spot  for  the  first  time. 
The  first  object  that  arrested  my  attention  on  enter- 
ing was  a  monument  in  the  form  of  a  small  Gothic 
chapel  which  stands  near  the  entrance,  in  the  avenue 
leading  to  the  right  hand.  On  the  marble  couch 
within  are  stretched  two  figures  carved  in  stone,  and 
dressed  in  the  antique  garb  of  the  Middle  Ages.  It 
is  the  tomb  of  Abelard  and  Heloise.  .  .  .  What  a 
singular  destiny  was  theirs  !  that  after  a  life  of  such 
passionate  and  disastrous  love — such  sorrows,  and 
tears,  and  penitence — their  very  dust  should  not  be 
suffered  to  rest  quietly  in  the  grave  ! — that  their 
death  should  so  much  resemble  their  life  in  its  changes 
and  vicissitudes — its  partings  and  its  meetings — its 
inquietudes  and  its  persecutions  ! — that  mistaken  zeal 
should  follow  them  down  to  the  very  tomb,  as  if 
earthly  passion  could  glimmer,  like  a  funeral  lamp, 
amid  the  damps  of  the  charnel-house,  and  '  even  in 
their  ashes  burn  their  wonted  fires  !'  .  .  .  Their  Lives 
arc  Uke  a  tale  that  is  told,  their  errors  are  '  folded  up 
like  a  book,'  and  what  mortal  hand  shall  break  the 
seal  that  death  has  set  upon  them  ! 

Leaving  this  interesting  tomb  behind  me,  I  took  a 
pathway  to  the  left,  which  conducted  me  up  the  hill- 


272  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

side.  I  soon  found  myself  in  the  deep  shade  of  heavy 
foliage,  where  the  branches  of  the  yew  and  willow 
mingled,  interwoven  with  the  tendrils  and  blossoms 
of  the  honeysuckle.  I  now  stood  in  the  most  populous 
part  of  this  city  of  tombs.  Every  step  awakened  a 
new  train  of  thrilling  recollections,  for  at  every  step 
my  eye  caught  the  name  of  someone  whose  glory  had 
exalted  the  character  of  his  native  land,  and  resounded 
across  the  waters  of  the  Atlantic.  Philosophers,  his- 
torians, musicians,  warriors,  and  poets,  slept  side  by 
side  around  me ;  some  beneath  the  gorgeous  monu- 
ment, and  some  beneath  the  simple  head-stone.  There 
were  the  graves  of  Fouscroi  and  Hauy ;  of  Ginguine 
and  Volney  ;  of  Gretry  and  Mehul ;  of  Ney,  and  Foy, 
and  Massena ;  of  La  Fontaine,  and  Moliere,  and 
Chenier,  and  Delille,  and  Parny.  But  the  political 
intrigue,  the  dream  of  science,  the  historical  research, 
the  ravishing  harmony  of  sound,  the  tried  courage, 
the  inspiration  of  the  lyre,  where  are  they  ?  With 
the  living,  and  not  wth  the  dead !  The  right  hand 
has  lost  its  cunning  in  the  grave,  but  the  soul,  whose 
high  volitions  it  obeyed,  still  lives  to  reproduce  itself 
in  ages  yet  to  come. 

Among  these  graves  of  genius  I  observed  here  and 
there  a  splendid  monument  which  had  been  raised  by 
the  pride  of  family  over  the  dust  of  men  who  could 
lay  no  claim  either  to  the  gratitude  or  remembrance 
of  posterity.  Their  presence  seemed  like  an  intrusion 
into  the  sanctuary  of  genius.  What  had  wealth  to 
do  there  ?  Why  should  it  crowd  the  dust  of  the 
great  ?  That  was  no  thoroughfare  of  business — no 
mart  of  gain  !  There  v/ere  no  costly  banquets  there  ; 
no  silken  garments,  nor  gaudy  liveries,  nor  obsequious 
attendants  !     '  What  servants,'  says  Jeremy  Taylor, 


PORTRAITS  OF  PLACES  273 

'  shall  we  have  to  wait  upon  us  in  the  grave  ?  What 
friends  to  visit  us  ?  What  officious  people  to  cleanse 
away  the  moist  and  unwholesome  cloud  reflected  upon 
our  faces  from  the  sides  of  the  weeping  vaults,  which 
are  the  longest  weepers  for  our  funerals  ?'  .  .  . 

I  continued  my  walk  through  the  numerous  wind- 
ing paths,  as  chance  or  curiosity  directed  me.  Now 
I  was  lost  in  a  little  green  hollow,  overhung  with 
thick-leaved  shrubbery,  and  then  came  out  upon  an 
elevation,  from  which,  through  an  opening  in  the 
trees,  the  eye  caught  glimpses  of  the  city,  and  the 
little  esplanade,  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  where  the 
poor  lie  buried.  There  poverty  hires  its  grave,  and 
takes  but  a  short  lease  of  the  narrow  house.  .  ,  . 

Yet,  even  in  that  neglected  corner  the  hand  of 
affection  had  been  busy  in  decorating  the  hired  house. 
Most  of  the  graves  were  surrounded  with  a  slight 
wooden  paling,  to  secure  them  from  the  passing  foot- 
step :  there  was  hardly  one  so  deserted  as  not  to  be 
marked  with  its  little  wooden  cross,  and  decorated 
with  a  garland  of  flowers  ;  and  here  and  there  I  could 
perceive  a  solitary  mourner,  clothed  in  black,  stoop- 
ing to  plant  a  shrub  on  the  grave,  or  sitting  in  motion- 
less sorrow  beside  it.  .  .  . 

After  rambling  leisurely  about  for  some  time,  read- 
ing the  inscriptions  on  the  various  monuments  which 
attracted  my  curiosity,  and  giving  way  to  the  dif- 
ferent reflections  they  suggested,  I  sat  down  to  rest 
myself  on  a  sunken  tombstone.  A  winding  gravel- 
walk,  overshaded  by  an  avenue  of  trees,  and  lined 
on  both  sides  with  richly-sculptured  monuments,  had 
gradually  conducted  me  to  the  summit  of  the  liill, 
upon  whose  slope  the  cemetery  stands.  Beneath  me 
in  the  distance,  and  dim-discovered  through  the  misty 

18 


274  THE  CHARAI  OF  PARIS 

and  smoky  atmosphere  of  evening,  rose  the  countless 
roofs  and  spires  of  the  city.  Beyond,  throwing  his 
level  rays  athwart  the  dusky  landscape,  sank  the 
broad,  red  sun.  The  distant  murmur  of  the  city  rose 
upon  my  ear  ;  and  the  toll  of  the  evening  bell  came 
up,  mingled  with  the  rattle  of  the  paved  street  and 
the  confused  sounds  of  labour.  What  an  hour  for 
meditation  !  What  a  contrast  between  the  metropolis 
of  the  living  and  the  metropolis  of  the  dead !  .  .  . 

Before  I  left  the  graveyard  the  shades  of  evening 
had  fallen  and  the  objects  around  me  grown  dim  and 
indistinct.  As  I  passed  the  gateway  I  turned  to  take 
a  parting  look.  I  could  distinguish  only  the  chapel 
on  the  summit  of  the  hill,  and  here  and  there  a  lofty 
obelisk  of  snow-white  marble,  rising  from  the  black 
and  heavy  mass  of  foliage  around,  and  pointing  up- 
ward to  the  gleam  of  the  departed  sun  that  still 
lingered  in  the  sky,  and  mingled  with  the  soft  star- 
light of  the  summer  evening. 

HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW. 

THE  TEJMPLE 

Towards  the  middle  of  the  Rue  du  Temple,  not  far 
from  a  fountain  which  is  placed  at  the  angle  of  a 
large  square,  can  be  seen  a  large  building  of  timber, 
roofed  with  slate,  and  in  form  a  parallelogram. 

It  is  the  Temple. 

Bounded  on  the  left  by  the  Rue  du  Petit  Thouasis, 
on  the  right  by  the  Rue  Percee,  it  terminates  at  a 
vast  circular  building,  a  colossal  rotunda,  surrounded 
by  a  gallery  with  arcades.  A  long  passage  through 
the  centre  divides  it  into  two  equal  parts ;  these  are 
in  their  turn  divided  and  subdivided  by  a  multitude 


PORTR.\ITS  OF  PLACES  275 

of  small  lateral  and  transverse  passages,  which  cross 
it  in  every  direction,  and  are  sheltered  from  the  rain 
by  the  roof  of  the  edifice. 

In  this  bazaar  all  new  merchandise  is  generally 
prohibited  ;  but  the  most  wretched  shreds  of  stuff 
of  whatever  description,  the  smallest  scraps  of  iron, 
copper,  or  steel,  find  here  both  buyer  and  seller. 
There  are  here  merchants  of  fragments  of  cloth  of  all 
colours,  all  shades,  all  qualities,  every  age,  destined 
to  match  the  pieces  to  mend  old  or  torn  clothes. 

There  are  shops  where  you  can  find  heaps  of  old 
shoes  run  down  at  the  heels,  cracked,  tilings  with  a 
name,  without  form,  without  colour  ;  yet  it  is  all 
bought  and  sold ;  there  are  people  who  Uve  by  this 
trade. 

Others  turn  their  attention  to  the  trade  of  women's 
hats.  These  hats  never  reach  the  shops  except  in 
the  bags  of  the  dealers  after  the  strangest  peregrina- 
tions, the  most  violent  transformation. 

Still  farther  on,  at  the  sign  of  the  Fashion  of  the 
Day,  under  the  arcades  of  the  rotunda,  raised  at  the 
end  of  the  large  passage  which  divides  the  Temple 
in  two  parts,  are  hung  up  myriads  of  clothes,  of 
colours,  forms,  and  shapes  the  most  extraordinary, 
still  more  so  than  the  women's  old  bonnets. 

Yet  this  exhibition  of  old  things  of  little  value,  and 
displayed  with  much  pretension,  is  a  great  boon  to 
the  very  poor  of  Paris. 

There  they  buy  at  two  or  three  hundred  per  cent, 
discount  excellent  things,  almost  new,  of  which  the 
depreciation  is  almost  imaginary. 

One  of  the  sides  of  the  Temple,  destined  for  bed- 
clothes, was  filled  with  piles  of  coverings,  sheets, 
mattresses,  and  pillows. 

18—3 


276  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

Farther  on  were  carpets,  curtains,  household 
utensils  of  all  sorts  ;  besides  clothing,  shoes,  caps, 
for  all  conditions,  for  all  ages. 

One  cannot  believe,  before  visiting  this  bazaar, 
how  little  time  and  money  is  necessary  to  fill  a  cart 
with  all  that  is  necessary  for  the  complete  establish- 
ment of  two  or  three  families  in  want  of  every  possible 

thing.  EUGENE   SUE. 


MONTMARTRE : MORNING 

'Tis  dawn  upon  Montmartre  !    O'er  the  plain. 

In  flake  and  spire,  the  sunbeam  plunges  deep. 

Bringing  out  shape,  and  shade,  and  summer-stain ; 

Like  a  retiring  host  the  blue  mists  sweep. 

Looms  on  the  farthest  right  Valerien's  steep, 

Crown'd  with  its  convent  kindling  in  the  day  ; 

And  swiftly  sparkling  from  their  leafy  sleep. 

Like  matin  stars,  around  the  horizon  play 

Far  village  vanes,  and  domes,  and  castle-turrets  grey. 

St.  Cloud  !    How  stately  from  the  green  hill's  side 
Shoots  up  thy  Parian  pile  !    His  transient  hold. 
Who  wore  the  iron  crown  of  regicide  ! 
He  treads  its  halls  no  more — his  hour  is  told. 
The  circle  widens  ;  Sevres  bright  and  cold 
Peeps  out  in  vestal  beauty  from  her  throne, 
Spared  for  Minerva's  sake,  when  round  her  roll'd 
From  yon  high  brow  the  Invader's  fiery  zone, 
Resistless,  as  can  tell  thy  faded  towers,  Meudon  I 

The  gale  has  come,  at  once  the  fleecy  haze 
Floats  up,  then  stands  a  purple  canopy. 
Shading  the  imperial  city  from  the  blaze. 
Glorious  the  vision  !  tower  and  temple  lie 


»« •>■(.;'»••  >  •■•* 


montmakirk:     Kri-,   i.f.pic 


PORTRAITS  OF  PLACES  277 

Beneath  the  morn,  like  waves  of  ivory, 

With  many  an  azure  streak  and  gush  of  green, 

As  grove  and  garden  on  the  dazzled  eye 

Rise  in  successive  beauty,  and  between 

Flows  into  sudden  light  the  long,  slow,  serpent  Seine. 

GEORGE  CROLY. 


A  FLIGHT  TO  PARIS 

A  FLIGHT  to  Paris  in  eleven  hours !  ...  I  am  not 
accountable  to  anybody  for  the  idleness  of  my 
thoughts  in  such  an  idles  ummer  flight ;  my  flight  is 
provided  for  by  the  South-Eastcrn,  and  is  no  business 
of  mine. 

The  bell !  With  all  my  heart.  It  does  not  require 
me  to  do  so  much  as  even  to  flap  my  wings.  Some- 
thing snorts  for  me,  something  shrieks  for  me,  some- 
thing proclaims  to  everything  else  that  it  had  better 
keep  out  of  my  way, — and  away  I  go. 

Ah  !  The  fresh  air  is  pleasant  after  the  forcing- 
frame,  though  it  docs  blow  over  these  interminable 
streets,  and  scatter  the  smoke  of  this  vast  wilderness 
of  chimneys.  Here  we  are — no,  I  mean  there  we 
were,  for  it  has  darted  far  into  the  rear — in  Ber- 
mondsey  where  the  tanners  live.  Flash  !  The  dis- 
tant shipping  in  the  Thames  is  gone.  Whirr  I  The 
little  streets  of  new  brick  and  red  tile,  with  here  and 
there  a  flagstaff  growing  like  a  tall  weed  out  of  the 
scarlet  beans.  .  .  . 

There  is  a  dreamy  pleasure  in  this  flying.  I  wonder 
where  it  was,  and  when  it  was,  that  we  exploded,  blew 
into  space  somehow,  a  Parliamentary  Train,  with  a 
crowd  of  heads  and  faces  looking  at  us  out  of  cages, 
and  some  hats  waving.    Monied  Interest  says  it  was 


278  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

at  Reigate  Station.  Expounds  to  Mystery  how 
Reigate  Station  is  so  many  miles  from  London,  which 
Mystery  again  develops  to  Compact  Enchantress. 
There  might  be  neither  a  Reigate  nor  a  London  for 
me,  as  I  fly  away  among  the  Kentish  hops  and  harvest. 
What  do  /  care  ? 

Bang !  We  have  let  another  Station  off,  and  fly 
away  regardless.  Everything  is  flying.  The  hop- 
gardens turn  gracefully  towards  me,  presenting  regu- 
lar avenues  of  hops  in  rapid  flight,  then  whirl  away. 
So  do  the  pools  and  rushes,  haystacks,  sheep,  clover 
in  full  bloom  dehcious  to  the  sight  and  smell,  corn- 
sheaves,  cherry-orchards,  apple-orchards,  reapers, 
gleaners,  hedges,  gates,  fields  that  taper  off  into  Uttle 
angular  corners,  cottages,  gardens,  now  and  then  a 
church.  Bang-bang  !  A  double-barrelled  Station  ! 
Now  a  wood,  now  a  bridge,  now  a  landscape,  now  a 

cutting,  now  a Bang  !  a  single-barreUed  Station 

— there  was  a  cricket-match  somewhere  with  two 
white  tents,  and  then  four  flying  cows,  then  turnips — 
now  the  wires  of  the  electric  telegraph  are  all  alive, 
and  spin,  and  blurr  their  edges,  and  go  up  and  dov/n, 
and  make  the  intervals  between  each  other  most 
irregular  :  contracting  and  expanding  in  the  strangest 
manner.  Now  we  slacken.  With  a  screwing,  and  a 
gi-inding,  and  a  smell  of  water  thrown  on  ashes,  now 
we  stop  ! 

Demented  Traveller,  who  has  been  for  two  or  three 
minutes  watchful,  clutches  his  great  coats,  plunges 
at  the  door,  rattles  it,  cries  '  Hi !'  eager  to  embark 
on  board  of  impossible  packets,  far  inland.  Collected 
Guard  appears.  '  Are  you  for  Tunbridge,  sir  ?'  '  Tun- 
bridge  ?  No.  Paris.'  '  Plenty  of  time,  sir.  No 
hurry.     Five  minutes  here,  sir,  for  refreshment.'     I 


PORTRAITS  OF  PLACES  279 

am  so  blest  (anticipating  Zamiel,  by  half  a  second)  as 
to  procure  a  glass  of  water  for  Compact  Enchantress. 

Who  would  suppose  we  had  been  flying  at  such  a 
rate,  and  shall  take  wing  again  directly  ?  Refresh- 
ment-room full,  platform  full,  porter  with  watering- 
pot  deliberately  cooling  a  hot  wheel,  another  porter 
with  equal  deliberation  helping  the  rest  of  the  wheels 
bountifully  to  ice  cream.  Monied  Interest  and  I 
re-entering  the  carriage  first,  and  being  there  alone, 
he  intimates  to  me  that  the  French  are  '  no  go '  as  a 
Nation.  I  ask  why  ?  He  says,  that  Reign  of  Terror 
of  theirs  was  quite  enough.  I  ventured  to  inquire 
whether  he  remembers  anything  that  preceded  said 
Reign  of  Terror  ?  He  says  not  particularly.  '  Be- 
cause,' I  remark,  '  the  harvest  that  is  reaped,  has 
sometimes  been  sown.'  Monied  Interest  repeats,  as 
quite  enough  for  him,  that  the  French  are  revolu- 
tionary,— '  and  always  at  it.'  .  .  . 

Now  fresher  air,  now  glimpses  of  unenclosed  Down- 
land  with  flapping  crows  flying  over  it  whom  we  soon 
outfly,  now  the  Sea,  now  Folkestone  at  a  quarter 
after  ten.  '  Tickets  ready,  gentlemen  !'  Demented 
dashes  at  the  door.  '  For  Paris,  sir  ?'  No  hurry.  .  .  . 
Meanwhile,  Demented  chafes.  Conceives  that  every 
man's  hand  is  against  him,  and  exerting  itself  to 
prevent  his  getting  to  Paris.  Refuses  consolation. 
Rattles  door.  Sees  smoke  on  the  horizon,  and 
'  knows '  it's  the  boat  gone  without  him.  Monied 
Interest  resentfully  explains  that  he  is  going  to  Paris 
too.  Demented  signifies  that  if  Monied  Interest 
chooses  to  be  left  behind,  he  don't.  .  .  . 

A  lovely  harvest  day,  a  cloudless  sky,  a  tranquil 
sea.  The  piston-rods  of  the  engines  so  regularly 
coming  up  from  below,  to  look  (as  well    hey  may) 


28o  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

at  the  bright  weather,  and  so  regularly  almost  knock- 
ing their  iron  heads  against  the  cross-beam  of  the  sky- 
light, and  never  doing  it !  Another  Parisian  actress 
is  on  board,  attended  by  another  Mystery.  Compact 
Enchantress  greets  her  sister  artist — Oh,  the  Compact 
One's  pretty  teeth  ! — and  Mystery  greets  Mystery. 
My  Mystery  soon  ceases  to  be  conversational — is 
taken  poorly,  in  a  word,  having  lunched  too  miscel- 
laneously— and  goes  below.  The  remaining  Mystery 
then  smiles  upon  the  sister  artists  (who,  I  am  afraid, 
wouldn't  greatly  mind  stabbing  each  other),  and  is 
upon  the  whole  ravished. 

And  now  I  find  that  all  the  French  people  on  board 
begin  to  grow,  and  all  the  English  people  to  shrink. 
The  French  are  nearing  home,  and  shaking  off  a  dis- 
advantage, whereas  we  are  shaking  it  on.  .  .  . 

Now,  I  tread  upon  French  ground,  and  am  greeted 
by  the  three  charming  words.  Liberty,  Equality, 
Fraternity,  painted  up  (in  letters  a  little  too  thin  for 
their  height)  on  the  Custom-house  wall — also  by  the 
sight  of  large  cocked  hats,  without  which  demonstra- 
tive head-gear  nothing  of  a  public  nature  can  be  done 
upon  this  soil.  All  the  rabid  Hotel  population  of 
Boulogne  howl  and  shriek  outside  a  distant  barrier, 
frantic  to  get  at  us.  Demented,  by  some  unlucky 
means  peculiar  to  himself,  is  delivered  over  to  their 
fury,  and  is  presently  seen  struggling  in  a  whirlpool 
of  Touters — is  somehow  understood  to  be  going  to 
Paris — is,  with  infinite  noise,  rescued  by  two  cocked 
hats,  and  brought  into  Custom-house  bondage  with 
the  rest  of  us.  .  .  . 

Fields,  windmills,  low  grounds,  pollard-trees,  wind- 
mills, fields,  fortifications,  Abbeville,  soldiering  and 
drumming,    I  wonder  where  England  is,  and  when  I 


PORTRAITS  OF  PLACES  281 

was  there  last — about  two  years  ago,  I  should  say. 
Flying  in  and  out  among  these  trenches  and  batteries, 
skimming  the  clattering  drawbridges,  looking  down 
into  the  stagnant  ditches,  I  become  a  prisoner  of 
state,  escaping.  I  am  confined  with  a  comrade  in  a 
fortress.  Our  room  is  in  an  upper  story.  We  have 
tried  to  get  up  the  chimney,  but  there's  an  iron 
grating  across  it,  imbedded  in  the  masonry.  After 
months  of  labour,  we  have  worked  the  grating  loose 
with  the  poker,  and  can  lift  it  up.  We  have  also 
made  a  hook,  and  twisted  our  rugs  and  blankets  into 
ropes.  Our  plan  is,  to  go  up  the  chimney,  hook  our 
ropes  to  the  top,  descend  hand  over  hand  upon  the 
roof  of  the  guard-house  far  below,  shake  the  hook 
loose,  watch  the  opportunity  of  the  sentinel's  pacing 
away,  hook  again,  drop  into  the  ditch,  swim  across 
it,  creep  into  the  shelter  of  the  wood.  The  time  is 
come — a  wild  and  stormy  night.  We  are  up  the 
chimney,  we  are  on  the  guard-house  roof,  we  are 
swimming  in  the  murky  ditch,  when  lo  !  '  Qui  v'la  ?' 
a  bugle,  the  alarm,  a  crash  !  What  is  it  ?  Death  ? 
No,  Amiens. 

More  fortifications,  more  soldiering  and  drumming, 
more  basins  of  soup,  more  Httlc  loaves  of  bread,  more 
bottles  of  wine,  more  caraffes  of  brandy,  more  time 
for  refreshment.  Everything  good,  and  everything 
ready.  Bright,  unsubstantial-looking,  scenic  sort  of 
station.  People  waiting.  Houses,  uniforms,  beards, 
moustaches,  some  sabots,  plenty  of  neat  women,  and 
a  few  old-visaged  children.  Unless  it  be  a  delusion 
born  of  my  giddy  flight,  the  grown-up  people  and  the 
children  seem  to  change  places  in  France.  In  general, 
the  boys  and  girls  are  lilUc  old  men  and  women,  and 
the  mon  p.nd  women  hvcly  boys  and  girls.  .  .  . 


282  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

A  voice  breaks  in  with  '  Paris  !    Here  we  are  !' 

I  have  overflown  myself,  perhaps,  but  I  can't 
believe  it.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  enchanted  or  bewitched. 
It  is  barely  eight  o'clock  yet — it  is  nothing  like  half- 
past — when  I  have  had  my  luggage  examined  at  that 
briskest  of  Custom-houses  attached  to  the  station,  and 
am  ratthng  over  the  pavement  in  a  hackney-cabriolet. 

Surely,  not  the  pavement  of  Paris  ?  Yes,  I  think 
it  is,  too.  I  don't  know  any  other  place  where  there 
are  all  these  high  houses,  all  these  haggard-looking 
wine-shops,  all  these  billiard  tables,  all  these  stocking- 
makers  with  flat  red  or  yellow  legs  of  wood  for  sign- 
board, all  these  fuel-shops  with  stacks  of  billets  painted 
outside,  and  real  billets  sawing  in  the  gutter,  all  these 
dirty  corners  of  streets,  aU  these  cabinet  pictures  over 
dark  doorways  representing  discreet  matrons  nursing 
babies.  And  yet  this  morning — I'll  think  of  it  in  a 
warm-bath. 

Very  like  a  small  room  that  I  remember  in  the 
Chinese  baths  upon  the  Boulevard,  certainly ;  and, 
though  I  see  it  through  the  steam,  I  think  that  I 
might  swear  to  that  peculiar  hot-linen  basket,  like  a 
large  wicker  hour-glass.  When  can  it  have  been  that 
I  left  home  ?  When  was  it  that  I  paid  '  through  to 
Paris  '  at  London  Bridge,  and  discharged  myself  of 
all  responsibiHty,  except  the  preservation  of  a  voucher 
ruled  into  three  divisions,  of  which  the  first  was 
snipped  off  at  Folkestone,  the  second  aboard  the 
boat,  and  the  third  taken  at  my  journey's  end  ?  It 
seems  to  have  been  ages  ago.  Calculation  is  useless. 
I  will  go  out  for  a  walk. 

The  crowds  in  the  streets,  the  Hghts  in  the  shops 
and  balconies,  the  elegance,  variety,  and  beauty  of 
their  decorations,  the  number  of  the  theatres,  the 


PORTRAITS  OF  PLACES  283 

brilliant  cafes  with  their  windows  thrown  up  high 
and  their  vivacious  groups  at  little  tables  on  the 
pavement,  the  light  and  glitter  of  the  houses  turned 
as  it  were  inside  out,  soon  convince  me  that  it  is  no 
dream  ;  that  I  am  in  Paris,  howsoever  I  got  here.  I 
stroll  down  to  the  sparkling  Palais  Royal,  up  the  Rue 
de  Rivoli,  to  the  Place  Vendome.  As  I  glance  into  a 
print-shop  window,  Monied  Interest,  my  late  travelling 
companion,  comes  upon  me,  laughing  with  the  highest 
relish  of  disdain.  '  Here's  a  people  !'  he  says,  pointing 
to  Napoleon  in  the  window  and  Napoleon  on  the 
column.  '  Only  one  idea  all  over  Paris !  A  mono- 
mania !'  Humph  !  I  think  I  have  seen  Napoleon's 
match  ?  There  was  a  statue,  when  I  came  away,  at 
Hyde  Park  Corner,  and  another  in  the  City,  and  a 
print  or  two  in  the  shops. 

I  walk  up  to  the  Barriere  de  I'^toile,  sufficiently 
dazed  by  my  flight  to  have  a  pleasant  doubt  of  the 
reality  of  everything  about  me  ;  of  the  lively  crowd, 
the  overhanging  trees,  the  performing  dogs,  the  hobby- 
horses, the  beautiful  perspectives  of  sliining  lamps : 
the  hundred  and  one  enclosures,  where  the  singing  is, 
in  gleaming  orchestras  of  azure  and  gold,  and  where 
a  star-eyed  Houri  comes  round  with  a  box  for  volun- 
tary offerings.  So,  I  pass  to  my  hotel,  enchanted ; 
sup,  enchanted  ;  go  to  bed,  enchanted  ;  pushing  back 
this  morning  (if  it  really  were  this  morning)  into  the 
remoteness  of  time,  blessing  the  South-Eastern  Com- 
pany for  realizing  the  Arabian  Nights  in  these  prose 
days,  murmuring,  as  I  wing  my  idle  flight  into  the 
land  of  dreams,  '  No  hurry,  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
going  to  Paris  in  eleven  hours.  It  is  so  well  done, 
that  there  really  is  no  hurry  !' 

CH.VRLES   DICKENS. 


284  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

SUBURBAN   PARIS  :  AN  IDYL 

The  country  around  Paris  each  season  has  its  own 
distinctive  features,  its  own  pecuhar  charm  :  at  times 
the  dazzHng  snow  changes  the  whole  scene  into  im- 
mense landscapes  of  purest  alabaster,  exhibiting  their 
spotless  beauties  to  the  reddish  grey  of  the  sky. 
Then  may  be  seen  in  the  glimmer  of  twilight,  either 
ascending  or  descending  the  hill,  a  benighted  farmer 
returning  to  his  habitation  ;  his  horse,  cloak,  and  hat 
are  covered  with  the  falling  snow.  Bitter  is  the  cold, 
biting  the  north  wind,  dark  and  gloomy  the  approach- 
ing night — but  what  cares  he  ?  There,  amid  those 
leafless  trees,  he  sees  the  bright  taper  burning  in  the 
window  of  his  cheerful  home  ;  while  from  the  tall 
chimney  a  column  of  dark  smoke  rolls  upwards 
through  the  flaky  shower  that  descends,  and  speaks 
to  the  toil-worn  farmer  of  a  blazing  hearth  and 
humble  meal  prepared  by  kind  affection  to  welcome 
him  after  the  fatigues  of  his  journey.  Then  the  rustic 
gossip  by  the  fireside,  on  which  the  faggot  burns  and 
crackles,  and  a  peaceful,  comfortable  night's  rest,  amid 
the  whistling  of  the  winds,  and  the  barking  of  the 
various  dogs  at  the  different  farms  scattered  around, 
with  the  answering  cry  from  the  distant  watch-dog. 

Daylight  opens  upon  a  scene  of  fairy-land.  Surely 
the  tiny  elves  have  been  celebrating  some  grand  fete, 
and  have  left  some  of  their  adornments  behind  them, 
for  on  each  branch  hang  long  spiracles  of  crystal, 
glittering  in  the  rays  of  a  winter's  sun  with  all  the 
prismatic  brilliancy  of  the  diamond.  The  damp,  rich 
soil  of  the  arable  land  is  laid  down  in  furrows  where 
hides  the  timid  hare  in  her  form,  or  the  speckled 
partridge  runs  merrily. 

^  •=■  "^  EUGENE    SUE. 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  PARIS 


There  is  no  place  in  the  world  like  Paris.  It  is  a  great  art 
or  a  great  gift  to  make  social  intercourse  bright  and  truly  a 
relaxation  equally  removed  from  pedantry  on  one  side  and 
the  dulness  of  indifference  on  the  other.  There  is  an  ease, 
an  apparent  simplicity,  and  a  clearness  of  expression  in 
Parisian  talkers  that  we  rarely  meet  with  in  provincials,  yet 
these  same  provincials  acquire  the  Parisian  polish  after  a 
few  years'  frottement  in  the  capital.  .  .  .  Like  London,  Paris 
is  democratic,  and  takes  each  man  for  what  he  is  (famous,  rich, 
talented,  witty),  without  inquiring  what  his  ancestors  were. 

PHILIP    GILBERT    HAMERTON. 


A  LETTER  FROM  SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY  PARIS 

Paris, 
May,  1620. 

I  AM  now  newly  come  to  Paris,  this  huge  magazine  of 
men,  the  epitome  of  this  large  populous  kingdom  and 
rendezvous  of  all  foreigners.  The  structures  here  are 
indifferently  fair,  though  the  streets  generally  foul, 
all  the  four  seasons  of  the  year,  which  I  impute  first, 
to  the  position  of  the  city  being  built  upon  an  isle 
(the  Isle  of  France,  made  so  by  the  branching  and 
serpentine  course  of  the  river  of  Seine),  and  having 
some  of  her  suburbs  seated  high ;  ...  as  also  for  a 
world  of  coaches,  carts,  and  horses  of  all  sorts  that  go 
to  and  fro  perpetually,  so  that  sometimes  one  shall 
meet  with  a  stop  half  a  mile  long  of  those  coaches, 
carts,  and  horses  that  can  move  neither  fonvard  nor 
backward  by  reason  of  some  sudden  encounter  of 
others  coming  across-way,  so  that  oftentimes  it  will 
be  an  hour  or  two  before  they  can  disentangle.  In 
such  a  stop  the  great  Henry  was  so  fatally  slain  by 
Ravillac.  .  .  , 

I  could  not  bid  Paris  adieu  till  I  had  conveyed  my 
true  and  constant  respects  to  you  by  this  letter.  I 
was  yesterday  ...  at  Saint  Germains,  where  I  met 
with  a  French  gentleman,  who,  amongst  other 
curiosities,  which  he  pleased  to  show  me  up  and  down 
Paris,  brought  me  to  that  place  where  the  late  king 
was  slain,  and  to  that  where  the  Marquis  of  Ancre 
was  shot,  and  so  made  me  a  punctual  relation  of  all 
287 


288  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

the  circumstances  of  those  two  acts,  which  in  regard 
they  were  rare,  and  I  beheve  two  of  the  notablest 
accidents  that  ever  happened  in  France,  I  thought  it 
worth  the  labour  to  make  you  partaker  of  some  part 
of  his  discourse. 

France,  as  all  Christendom  besides  (for  there  was 
then  a  truceb  etwixt  Spain  and  the  Hollander),  was  in 
a  profound  peace,  and  had  continued  so  twenty  years 
together,  when  Henry  the  Fourth  fell  upon  some 
great  martial  design,  the  bottom  whereof  is  not  known 
to  this  day  ;  and  being  rich  (for  he  had  heaped  up 
in  the  Bastile  a  mount  of  gold  that  was  as  high  as  a 
lance)  he  levied  a  huge  army  of  40,000  men,  whence 
came  the  song,  '  The  King  of  France  with  forty 
thousand  men  '  ;  and  upon  a  sudden  he  put  this  army 
in  perfect  equipage,  and  some  say  he  invited  our 
Prince  Henry  to  come  unto  him  to  be  a  sharer  in  his 
exploits.  But  going  one  afternoon  to  the  Bastile  to 
see  his  treasure  and  ammunition,  his  coach  stopped 
suddenly,  by  reason  of  some  colliers  and  other  carts 
that  were  in  that  narrow  street ;  whereupon  one 
Ravillac,  a  lay-Jesuit  (who  had  a  whole  twelvemonth 
watched  an  opportunity  to  do  the  act),  put  his  foot 
boldly  upon  one  of  the  wheels  of  the  coach,  and  with 
a  long  knife  stretched  himself  over  their  shoulders 
who  were  in  the  boot  of  the  coach,  and  reached  the 
king  at  the  end,  and  stabbed  him  right  in  the  left  side 
to  the  heart,  and  pulling  out  the  fatal  steel,  he  doubled 
his  thrust  ;  the  king  with  a  ruthful  voice  cried  out, 
'  Je  suis  blesse  '  (I  am  hurt),  and  suddenly  the  blood 
issued  at  his  mouth.  The  regicide  villain  was  appre- 
hended, and  command  given  that  no  violence  should 
be  offered  him,  that  he  might  be  reserved  for  the  law, 
and  some  exquisite  torture.     The  queen  grew  half- 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  PARIS  289 

distracted  hereupon,  who  had  been  crowned  Queen 
of  France  the  day  before  in  great  triumph  ;  but  a  few 
days  after  she  had  something  to  countervail,  if  not  to 
overmatch  her  sorrow  ;  for  according  to  Saint  Lewis 
law,  she  was  made  Queen  Regent  of  France  during 
the  king's  minority,  who  was  then  but  about  —  years 
of  age.  Many  consultations  were  held  how  to  punish 
Ravillac,  and  there  were  some  Italian  physicians  that 
undertook  to  prescribe  a  torment,  that  should  last  a 
constant  torment  for  three  days,  but  he  escaped  only 
with  this  :  his  body  was  pulled  between  four  horses, 
that  one  might  hear  his  bones  crack,  and  after  the 
dislocation  they  were  set  again,  and  so  he  was  carried 
in  a  cart  standing  half  naked,  with  a  torch  in  that 
hand  which  had  committed  the  murder  ;  and  in  the 
place  where  the  act  was  done,  it  was  cut  off,  and  a 
gauntlet  of  hot  oil  was  clapped  upon  the  stump,  to 
staunch  the  blood,  whereat  he  gave  a  doleful  shriek  ; 
then  was  he  brought  upon  a  stage,  where  a  new  pair 
of  boots  was  provided  for  him,  half-filled  with  boiling 
oil ;  then  his  body  was  pincered,  and  hot  oil  poured 
into  the  holes.  In  all  the  extremity  of  this  torture,  he 
scarce  showed  any  sense  of  pain  but  when  the  gauntlet 
was  clapped  upon  his  arms  to  staunch  the  flux,  at 
which  time  he  of  reeking  blood  gave  a  shriek  only. 
He  bore  up  against  all  these  torments  about  three 
hours  before  he  died.  All  the  confession  that  could 
be  drawn  from  him  was  '  that  he  thought  to  have 
done  God  good  service,  to  take  away  that  king,  which 
would  have  embroiled  all  Christendom  in  an  endless 
war.' 

A  fatal  thing  it  was  that  France  should  have  three 
of  her  kings  come  to  such  violent  deaths  in  so  short 
a  revolution  of  time.     Henry  the  Second,  running  a 

19 


290  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

tilt  with  Monsieur  Montgomery,  was  killed  by  a 
splinter  of  a  lance  that  pierced  his  eye  ;  Henry  the 
Third,  not  long  after,  was  killed  by  a  young  friar,  who, 
in  lieu  of  a  letter  which  he  pretended  to  have  for  him, 
pulled  out  of  his  long  sleeve  a  knife,  and  thrust  him 
into  the  bottom  of  the  belly  .  .  .  and  so  despatched 
him  ;  but  that  regicide  was  hacked  to  pieces  in  the 
place  by  the  nobles. 

The  same  destiny  attended  this  king  by  Ravillac, 
which  is  become  now  a  common  name  of  reproach 
and  infamy  in  France. 

Never  was  king  so  much  lamented  as  this.  There 
are  a  world  not  only  of  his  pictures,  but  statues,  up 
and  down  France,  and  there  is  scarce  a  market-town 
but  hath  him  erected  in  the  market-place,  or  over 
some^gate,  not  upon  sign-posts,  as  our  Henry  the 
Eighth,  and  by  a  public  Act  of  Parhament,  which 
was  confirmed  in  the  consistory  at  Rome,  he  was 
entitled  Henry  the  Great,  and  so  placed  in  the  Temple 
of  Immortality.  A  notable  prince  he  was,  and  of 
an  admirable  temper  of  body  and  mind  ;  he  had  a 
graceful  facetious  way  to  gain  both  love  and  awe  ;  he 
would  be  never  transported  beyond  himself  with 
choler,  but  he  would  pass  by  anything  with  some 
repartee,  some  witty  strain,  wherein  he  was  excellent. 
I  will  instance  in  a  few  which  were  told  me  from  a 
good  hand.  One  day  he  was  charged  by  the  Duke 
of  Bouillon  to  have  changed  his  religion  ;  he  answered, 
'  No,  cousin,  I  have  changed  no  religion,  but  an 
opinion ' ;  and  the  Cardinal  of  Perron  being  by,  he 
enjoined  him  to  write  a  treatise  for  his  vindication. 
The  cardinal  was  long  about  the  work,  and  when  the 
king  asked  from  time  to  time  where  his  book  was,  he 
would  still  answer  him  '  that  he  expected  some  manu- 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  PARIS  291 

scripts  from  Rome  before  he  could  finish  it.'  It 
happened  that  one  day  the  king  took  the  cardinal 
along  with  him  to  look  on  his  workmen  and  new 
buildings  at  the  Louvre ;  and  passing  by  one 
corner  which  had  been  a  long  time  begun,  but  left 
unfinished,  the  king  asked  the  chief  mason  why  that 
corner  was  not  all  this  while  perfected.  '  Sir,  it  is 
because  I  want  some  choice  stones.'  '  No,  no,'  said 
the  king,  looking  upon  the  cardinal,  '  it  is  because 
thou  wantest  manuscripts  from  Rome.'  Another 
time,  the  old  Duke  of  Main,  who  was  used  to  play  the 
droll  with  him,  coming  softly  into  his  bed-chamber, 
and  thrustmg  his  bald  head  and  long  neck  in  a  posture 
to  make  the  king  merry,  it  happened  the  king  was 
coming  from  his  bedchamber,  and  said : 

'  Ah,  cousin,  you  thought  once  to  have  taken  the 
crown  off  of  my  head,  and  wear  it  on  your  own  ;  but 
.  .  .  my  tail  shall  .  .  .  serve  your  turn.' 

Another  time,  when  at  the  siege  of  Amiens,  he 
having  sent  for  the  Count  of  Soissons  (who  had 
100,000  franks  a  year  pension  from  the  Crown)  to 
assist  him  in  those  wars,  and  that  the  count  excused 
himself  by  reason  of  his  years  and  poverty,  having 
exhausted  himself  in  the  former  wars,  and  all  that  he 
could  do  now  was  to  pray  for  his  majesty,  which  he 
would  do  heartily.  Tiiis  answer  being  brought  to 
the  king,  he  replied  :  '  Will  my  cousin,  the  Count  of 
Soissons,  do  nothing  else  but  pray  for  me ;  tell  him 
that  prayer  without  fasting  is  not  available  ;  therefore 
I  will  make  my  cousin  fast  also  from  his  pension  of 
100,000  per  annum.' 

He  was  once  troubled  with  a  fit  of  the  gout,  and  the 
Spanish  ambassador  coming  tlien  to  visit  hiiii,  and 

19—^ 


293  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

saying  he  was  sorry  to  see  His  Majesty  so  lame,  he 
answered  :  '  As  lame  as  I  am,  if  there  were  occasion, 
your  master  the  King  of  Spain  should  no  sooner  have 
his  foot  in  the  stirrup,  but  he  should  find  me  on 
horseback.'  By  these  few  you  may  guess  at  the 
genius  of  this  spiritful  prince.  ,  .  . 

This  kingdom,  since  the  young  king  hath  taken 
the  sceptre  into  his  own  hands,  doth  flourish  very 
much  with  quietness  and  commerce  ;  nor  is  there  any 
motion  or  the  least  tintamar  of  trouble  in  any  part 
of  the  country,  which  is  rare  in  France.  'Tis  true, 
the  queen  mother  is  discontented  since  she  left  her 
regency,  being  confined,  and  I  know  not  what  it  may 
come  unto  in  time,  for  she  hath  a  strong  party,  and 
the  murdering  of  her  Marquis  of  Ancre  will  yet  bleed 
as  some  fear. 

I  was  lately  in  society  of  a  gentleman,  who  was  a 
spectator  of  that  tragedy,  and  he  pleased  to  relate 
unto  me  the  particulars  of  it,  which  was  thus  :  When 
Henry  the  Fourth  was  slain,  the  queen  dowager  took 
the  reins  of  the  government  into  her  hands  during 
the  young  king's  minority  ;  and  amongst  others  whom 
she  advanced,  Signior  Conchino,  a  Florentine,  and 
her  foster-brother  was  one.  Her  countenance  came 
to  shine  so  strongly  upon  him  that  he  became  her  only 
confidant  and  favourite,  insomuch  that  she  made  him 
Marquis  of  Ancre,  one  of  the  twelve  Marshals  of 
France,  Governor  of  Nonnandy,  and  conferred  divers- 
other  honours  and  offices  of  trust  upon  him,  and  who 
but  he.  The  princes  of  France  could  not  endure  this 
domineering  of  a  stranger,  therefore  they  leagued 
together  to  suppress  him  by  arms.  The  queen  regent 
having  intelligence  thereof,  surprised  the  Prince  of 
Conde  and  clapped  him  up  in  the  Bastile.     The  Duke 


THE  ROM  ANTE  OF  PARIS  293 

of  Main  fled  hereupon  to  Peronne  in  Pycardie,  and 
other  great  men  put  themselves  in  an  armed  posture 
to  stand  upon  their  guard.  The  young  king  being 
told  that  the  Marquis  of  Ancre  was  the  ground  of 
this  discontentment,  commanded  Monsieur  de  Vitry, 
Captain  of  liis  Guard,  to  arrest  him,  and  in  case  of 
resistance  to  kill  him.  This  business  was  carried  very 
closely  till  the  next  morning,  that  the  said  marquis 
was  coming  to  the  Louvre  with  a  ruffling  train  of 
gallants  after  him,  and  passing  over  the  drawbridge 
at  the  court  gate,  \'itry  stood  there  with  the  king's 
guard  about  him,  and  as  the  marquis  entered  he  told 
him  that  he  had  a  commission  from  the  king  to 
apprehend  him  ;  therefore,  he  demanded  his  sword. 
The  marquis  hereupon  put  his  hand  upon  his  sword, 
some  thought  to  yield  it  up,  others  to  make  opposi- 
tion ;  in  the  meantime  Vitry  discharged  a  pistol  at 
him,  and  so  despatched  him.  The  king,  being  above 
in  his  gallery,  asked  what  noise  that  was  below  ? 
One  smilingly  answered,  '  Nothing,  sir  ;  but  that  the 
Marshal  of  Ancre  is  slain.'  '  Who  slew  him  ?'  '  The 
Captain  of  your  Guard.'  '  Why  ?'  '  Because  he 
would  have  drawn  his  sword  at  your  Majesty's  Royal 
Commission.'  Then  the  king  replied,  '  Vitry  hath 
done  well,  and  I  will  maintain  the  act.'  Presently 
the  queen  mother  had  all  her  guard  taken  from  her 
except  six  men  and  sixteen  women,  and  so  she 
was  banished  Paris  and  commanded  to  retire  to 
Blois.  Ancre's  body  was  buried  that  night  in  a 
church  hard  by  the  court,  but  the  next  morning,  when 
the  lackeys  and  pages  (who  are  more  unhappy  here 
than  the  apprentices  in  London)  broke  up  his  grave, 
tore  his  coffin  to  pieces,  ripped  the  winding-sheet,  and 
tied  his  body  to  an  ass's  tail,  and  so  dragged  hioT  up 


294  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

and  down  the  gutters  of  Paris,  which  are  none  of  the 
sweetest ;  they  then  fiicked  off  his  ears  and  nailed 
them  upon  the  gates  of  the  city  .  .  .  (and  they 
say  he  was  hung  hke  an  ass).  ,  .  .  His  body 
they  carried  to  the  new  bridge,  and  hung  him, 
his  heels  upwards,  and  head  downwards,  upon  a 
new  gibbet  that  had  been  set  up  a  little  before 
to  punish  them  who  should  speak  ill  of  the  present 
Government,  and  it  was  his  chance  to  have  the 
maidenhead  of  it  himself.  His  wife  v.'as  hereupon 
apprehended,  imprisoned,  and  beheaded  for  a  witch 
some  few  days  after  upon  a  surmise  that  she  had 
enchanted  the  queen  to  dote  so  upon  her  husband  ; 
and  they  say  the  young  king's  picture  was  found  in 
her  closet  in  virgin  wax,  with  one  leg  melted  away. 
A  little  after  a  process  was  formed  against  the  marquis 
(her  husband),  and  so  he  was  condemned  after  death. 
This  was  a  right  act  of  a  French  popular  fury,  which 
like  an  angry  torrent  is  irresistible,  nor  can  any  banks, 
boundaries,  or  dykes  stop  the  impetuous  rage  of  it. 
How  the  young  king  will  prosper  after  so  high  and  an 
unexampled  act  of  violence  by  beginning  his  reign, 
and  embruing  the  walls  of  ins  own  court  with  blood 
in  that  matter,  there  are  divers  censures. 

JAMES   HOWELL. 


DANTE  IN  PARIS 

'  In  Paris  Dante  gave  himself  to  the  study  of  theology  and 
philosophy.' — Boccaccio. 

Sojourner  from  thine  own  fair  lovely  land. 
To  Paris  thou  didst  come  to  ponder  deep 
Upon  life's  mysteries,  and  there  to  steep 

Thy  soul  in  highest  thoughts  ;  as  thou  didst  stand 


THE  ROMANXE  OF  PARIS  295 

By  flowing  Seine  in  all  thy  solitude 
Thou  wert  not  heedless  to  mere  human  things, 
The  shadow  of  whose  sadness  round  thee  clings 

Whilst  pondering  on  them  in  some  heavenly  mood. 

WTiat  centuries  have  passed  since  thou  didst  tread 
The  streets  of  Paris,  city  then  most  strange 
If  contrasted  with  that  known  in  these  days. 
Paris  !  though  gladness  everywhere  seems  round  thee 
spread, 
In  light  and  beauty  do  thy  long  streets  range,— 
Somewhat  of  Dante's  sadness  in  them  stays. 

AMBROSE   VERRELL. 

HELOISE  TO  ABELARD 

Abelard  and  Heloise  flourished  in  the  twelfth  century  ;  they 
were  two  most  distinguished  persons  of  Paris  noted  for  learning 
and  beauty  and  for  their  unfortunate  passion.  After  a  series  of 
calamities  they  each  retired  to  a  convent.  It  was  many  years 
after  this  separation  that  a  letter  of  Abelard's  to  a  friend* 
containing  the  story  of  these  lovers,  fell  into  the  hands  of  Heloise, 
and  thus  occasioned  these  celebrated  letters.  These  lovers  are 
buried  in  Pire  Lachaise. 

In  these  deep  solitudes  and  awful  cells, 
Where  heavenly-pensive  contemplation  dwells. 
And  ever-musing  melancholy  reigns, 
What  means  this  tumult  in  a  vestal's  veins  ? 
Why  rove  my  thoughts  beyond  this  last  retreat  ? 
Why  feels  my  heart  its  long-forgotten  heat  ? 
Yet,  yet  I  love  ! — From  Abelard  it  came, 
And  Heloise  yet  must  kiss  the  name.  .  .  . 
Relentless  walls  !  whose  darksome  round  contains 
Repentant  sighs,  and  voluntary  pains  : 
Ye  rugged  rocks  !  which  holy  knees  have  worn  ; 
*  Sfe  next  extract. 


296  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

Ye  grots  and  caverns  shagg'd  with  horrid  thorn  ! 

Shrines  !  where  their  vigils  pale-ey'd  virgins  keep 

And  pitying  saints,  whose  statues  learn  to  weep  ! 

Though  cold  like  you,  unmov'd  and  silent  grown, 

I  have  not  yet  forgot  myself  to  stone. 

All  is  not  Heaven's  while  Abelard  has  part, 

Still  rebel  nature  holds  out  half  my  heart  ; 

Nor  prayers  nor  fasts  its  stubborn  pulse  restrain, 

Nor  tears,  for  ages  taught  to  flow  in  vain. 

Soon  as  thy  letters  trembling  I  unclose, 

That  well-known  name  awakens  all  my  woes. 

Oh  name  for  ever  sad  !  for  ever  dear  ! 

Still  breath'd  in  sighs,  still  usher'd  with  a  tear. 

I  tremble  too,  where'er  my  own  I  find. 

Some  dire  misfortune  follows  close  behind. 

Line  after  line  my  gushing  eyes  o'erflow. 

Led  through  a  sad  variety  of  woe  : 

Now  warm  in  love,  now  withering  in  my  bloom. 

Lost  in  a  convent's  solitary  gloom  ! 

There  stern  religion  quench'd  th'  unwilling  flame, 

There  died  the  best  of  passions,  love  and  fame. 

Yet  write,  O  write  me  all,  that  I  may  join 

Griefs  to  thy  griefs,  and  echo  sighs  to  thine. 

Nor  foes  nor  fortune  take  this  power  away  ; 

And  is  my  Abelard  less  kind  than  they  ? 

Tears  still  are  mine,  and  those  I  need  not  spare  : 

Love  but  demands  what  else  were  shed  in  prayer  ; 

No  happier  task  these  faded  eyes  pursue ; 

To  read  and  weep  is  all  they  now  can  do. 

Then  share  thy  pain,  allow  that  sad  relief ; 

Ah,  more  than  share  it,  give  me  all  thy  grief. 

Heaven  first  taught  letters  for  some  wretch's  aid, 

Some  banish'd  lover,  or  some  captive  maid  ; 

They  live,  they  speak,  they  breathe  what  love  inspires, 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  PARIS  297 

Warm  from  the  soul,  and  faithful  to  its  fires.  .  .  . 

Canst  thou  forget  that  sad,  that  solemn  day, 

When  victims  at  yon  altar's  foot  we  lay  ? 

Canst  thou  forget  what  tears  that  moment  fell, 

When,  warm  in  youth,  I  bade  the  world  farewell  ? 

As  with  cold  lips  I  kiss'd  the  sacred  veil. 

The  shrines  all  trembled,  and  the  lamps  grew  pale  : 

Heaven  scarce  believ'd  the  conquest  it  survey'd, 

And  saints  with  wonder  heard  the  vows  I  made. 

Yet  then,  to  those  dread  altars  as  I  drew, 

Not  on  the  cross  my  eyes  were  fix'd,  but  you  : 

Not  grace,  or  zeal,  love  only  was  my  call. 

And  if  I  lose  thy  love,  I  lose  my  all. 

Come  !  with  thy  looks,  thy  words,  relieve  my  woe  ; 

Those  still  at  least  are  left  thee  to  bestow. 

Still  on  that  breast  enamour'd  let  me  lie, 

Still  drink  delicious  poison  from  thy  eye. 

Pant  on  thy  lip,  and  to  thy  heart  be  press'd  ; 

Give  all  thou  canst — and  let  me  dream  the  rest. 

Ah  no  !  instruct  me  other  joys  to  prize, 

With  other  beauties  charm  my  partial  eyes  ! 

Full  in  my  view  set  all  the  bright  abode. 

And  make  my  soul  quit  Abelard  for  God.  .  .  . 

In  these  lone  walls  (their  day's  eternal  bound). 

These  moss-grown  domes  with  spiry  turrets  crown'd, 

Where  awful  arches  make  a  noonday  night ; 

And  the  dim  windows  shed  a  solemn  light ; 

Thy  eyes  diffus'd  a  reconciling  ray. 

And  gleams  of  glory  brighten'd  all  the  day. 

But  now  no  face  divine  contentment  wears, 

'Tis  all  blank  sadness,  or  continual  tears. 

See  how  the  force  of  others'  prayers  I  try, 

(O  pious  fraud  of  amorous  charity  !) 

But  why  should  I  on  others'  prayers  depend  ? 


298  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

Come  thou,  my  father,  brother,  husband,  friend ! 

Ah,  let  thy  handmaid,  sister,  daughter,  move, 

And  all  those  tender  names  in  one,  thy  love  ! 

The  darksome  pines,  that  o'er  yon  rocks  reclin'd, 

Wave  high,  and  murmur  to  the  hollow  wind. 

The  wandering  streams  that  shine  between  the  hills, 

The  grots  that  echo  to  the  tinkling  rills. 

The  dying  gales  that  pant  upon  the  trees, 

The  lakes  that  quiver  to  the  curling  breeze  ; 

No  more  these  scenes  my  meditation  aid. 

Or  lull  to  rest  the  visionary  maid  : 

But  o'er  the  twilight  groves  and  dusky  caves, 

Long-sounding  aisles  and  intenningled  graves. 

Black  Melancholy  sits,  and  round  her  throws 

A  death-like  silence,  and  a  dread  repose  : 

Her  gloomy  presence  saddens  all  the  scene. 

Shades  every  flower,  and  darkens  every  green, 

Deepens  the  muiTnur  of  the  falling  floods. 

And  breathes  a  browner  horror  on  the  woods, 

Yet  here  for  ever,  ever  must  I  stay  ; 

Sad  proof  how  well  a  lover  can  obey  ! 

Death,  only  death  can  break  the  lasting  chain  ; 

And  here,  e'en  then,  shall  my  cold  dust  remain  ; 

Here  all  its  frailties,  all  its  flames  resign. 

And  wait  till  'tis  no  sm  to  mix  with  thine.  .  .  . 

Come,  Abelard  !  for  what  hast  thou  to  dread  ? 

The  torch  of  Venus  burns  not  for  the  dead. 

Nature  stands  check'd  ;  Religion  disapproves  ; 

E'en  thou  art  cold — yet  Heloise  loves. 

Ah  hopeless,  lasting  flames  !  like  those  that  burn 

To  light  the  dead,  and  warm  th'  unfruitful  urn. 

What  scenes  appear  where'er  I  turn  my  view  ? 

The  dear  ideas,  where  I  fly,  pursue  ; 

Rise  in  the  grove,  before  the  altar  rise, 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  PARIS  299 

Stain  all  my  soul,  and  wanton  in  my  eyes. 

I  waste  the  matin  lamp  in  sighs  for  thee, 

Thy  image  steals  between  my  God  and  me  ; 

Thy  voice  I  seem  in  every  hymn  to  hear, 

With  every  bead  I  drop  too  soft  a  tear. 

When  from  the  censer  clouds  of  fragrance  roll, 

And  swelling  organs  lift  the  rising  soul. 

One  thought  of  thee  puts  all  the  pomp  to  flight, 

Priests,  tapers,  temples,  swim  before  my  sight : 

In  seas  of  flame  my  plunging  soul  is  drown'd. 

While  altars  blaze,  and  angels  tremble  round.  .  .  . 

See  in  her  cell  sad  Heloise  spread, 
Propt  on  some  tomb,  a  neighbour  of  the  dead. 
In  each  low  wind  methinks  a  spirit  calls. 
And  more  than  echoes  talk  along  the  walls. 
Here,  as  I  watch'd  the  dying  lamps  around. 
From  yonder  shrine  I  heard  a  hoUow  sound  : 
'  Come,  sister,  come  !  (it  said,  or  seem'd  to  say) 
Thy  place  is  here,  sad  sister,  come  away  ; 
Once,  like  thyself,  I  trembled,  wept,  and  pray'd. 
Love's  victim  then,  though  now  a  sainted  maid  : 
But  all  is  calm  in  this  eternal  sleep  ; 
Here  grief  forgets  to  groan,  and  love  to  weep  ; 
E'en  superstition  loses  every  fear  : 
For  God,  not  man,  absolves  our  frailties  here.* 

May  one  kind  grave  unite  each  hapless  name, 
And  graft  my  love  immortal  on  thy  fame  ! 
Then,  ages  hence,  when  all  my  woes  are  o'er. 
When  this  rebellious  heart  shall  beat  no  more  ; 
If  ever  chance  two  wandering  lovers  brings, 
To  Paraclete's*  white  walls  and  silver  springs, 

*  The  bodies  of  Abclard  and  Ilcloise  were  removed  from 
the  Paraclete  and  now  lie  in  P6re  Lachaise. — Ed. 


300  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

O'er  the  pale  marble  shall  they  join  their  heads. 

And  drink  the  falling  tears  each  other  sheds  ; 

Then  sadly  say,  with  mutual  pity  mov'd, 

'  O  may  we  never  love  as  these  have  lov'd  !' 

From  the  full  choir,  when  loud  Hosannas  rise. 

And  swell  the  pomp  of  dreadful  sacrifice. 

Amid  that  scene,  if  some  relenting  eye 

Glance  on  the  stone  where  our  cold  relics  lie. 

Devotion's  self  shall  steal  a  thought  from  heaven, 

One  human  tear  shall  drop,  and  be  forgiven. 

And  sure  if  fate  some  future  bard  shall  join 

In  sad  similitude  of  griefs  to  mine. 

Condemn' d  whole  years  in  absence  to  deplore, 

And  image  charms  he  must  behold  no  more  ; 

Such  if  there  be,  who  loves  so  long,  so  well, 

Let  him  our  sad,  our  tender  story  tell ; 

The  well-sung  woes  will  soothe  my  pensive  ghost ; 

He  best  can  paint  them  who  shall  feel  them  most. 

ALEXANDER  POPE. 

ABELARD  AND  HELOISE 
Abelard  writes  to  his  Friend  of  his  Love  for  Heloise 
Philintus, — Attend  to  me  a  moment,  and  hear  but 
the  story  of  my  misfortunes,  and  yours,  Philintus, 
will  be  nothing,  if  you  compare  them  with  those  of 
the  loving  and  unhappy  Abelard.  You  know  the 
place  where  I  was  born  :  but  not,  perhaps,  that  I  was 
born  with  those  complexional  faults  which  strangers 
charge  upon  our  nations,  an  extreme  lightness  of 
temper,  and  great  inconstancy.  I  frankly  own  it, 
and  shall  be  free  to  acquaint  you  with  these  good 
qualities  which  are  observed  in  me.  I  had  a  natural 
vivacity  and  aptness  for  all  the  polite  arts.    My  father 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  PARIS  301 

was  a  gentleman,  and  a  man  of  good  parts  ;  he  loved 
the  wars,  but  differed  in  his  sentiments  from  many 
who  follow  that  profession.    He  thought  it  no  praise 
to  be  illiterate  ;  but  in  the  camp  he  knew  how  to  con- 
verse at  the  same  time  with  the  Muses  and  Bellona. 
As  I  was  his  eldest,  and  consequently  his  favourite 
son,  he  took  more  than  ordinary  care  of  my  educa- 
tion.   I  had  a  natural  genius  to  study,  and  made  an 
extraordinary  progress  in  it.    Smitten  with  the  love 
of  books,  and  the  praises  which  on  all  sides  were  be- 
stowed upon  me,  I  aspired  to  no  reputation  but  what 
proceeded  from  learning.     The  ambition  I  had  to 
become  formidable  in  logic  led  me  at  last  to  Paris, 
the  centre  of  poUteness,  and  where  the  science  I  was 
so  smitten  with  had  usually  been  in  the  greatest  per- 
fection.   I  put  myself  under  the  direction  of  one  Cham- 
peaux,  a  professor,  who  had  acquired  the  character  of 
the  most  skilful  philosopher  of  his  age,  by  negative 
excellences  only,  by  being  the  least  ignorant.     He 
received  me  with  great  demonstrations  of  kindness. . . . 
And  now,  my  friend,  I  am  going  to  expose  to  you 
all  my  weaknesses.    All  men,  I  believe,  are  under  a 
necessity  of  paying  tribute,  at  some  time  or  other,  to 
love,  and  it  is  in  vain  to  strive  to  avoid  it.    I  was  a 
philosopher,  yet  this  tyrant  of  the  mind  triumphed 
over  all  my  wisdom  ;  his  darts  were  of  greater  force 
than  all  my  reasonings,  and  with  a  sweet  constraint 
he  led  me  whither  he  pleased.    I  will  tell  you,  my  dear 
friend,  the  particulars  of  my  story,  and  leave  you  to 
judge  whether  I  deserve  a  correction. 

There  was  in  Paris  a  young  creature  (ah,  Philintus  !) 
formed  in  a  prodigality  of  nature,  to  show  mankind  a 
finished  composition  ;  dear  Heloise  !  the  reputed  niece 
of  the  Canon  Fulbert.    Her  wit  and  her  beauty  would 


303  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

have  fired  the  dullest  and  most  insensible  heart  ;  and 
her  education  was  equally  admirable.  Heloise  was 
mistress  of  the  most  polite  arts.  You  may  easily 
imagine  that  this  did  not  a  little  help  to  captivate  me. 
I  saw  her,  I  loved  her,  I  resolved  to  endeavour  to 
engage  her  affections.  The  thirst  of  glory  cooled  im- 
mediately in  my  heart,  and  all  my  passions  were  lost 
in  this  new  one.  I  thought  of  nothing  but  Heloise  ; 
everything  brought  her  image  to  my  mind.  My  repu- 
tation had  spread  itself  everjrwhere  ;  and  could  a  vir- 
tuous lady  resist  a  man  that  had  confounded  all  the 
learned  of  the  age  ?  Besides,  I  had  wit  enough  to 
write  a  billet-doux,  and  hoped,  if  ever  she  permitted 
my  absent  self  to  entertain  her,  she  would  read  with 
pleasure  those  breathings  of  my  heart. 

Filled  with  these  notions,  I  thought  of  nothing  but 
the  means  to  speak  to  Heloise.  Lovers  either  find  or 
make  all  things  easy.  By  the  common  offices  of  friends 
I  gained  the  acquaintance  of  Fulbert  her  uncle.  And, 
can  you  beheve  it,  Philintus  ?  he  allowed  me  the 
privilege  of  his  table. 

As  I  was  with  her  one  day  alone,  '  Charming 
Heloise,'  I  said,  blushing,  '  if  you  know  yourself,  you 
will  not  be  surprised  with  that  passion  you  have 
inspired  me  with.  Uncommon  as  it  is,  I  can  express 
it  but  with  the  common  terms.  I  love  you,  Heloise  ! 
Till  now  I  thought  philosophy  made  us  masters  of  all 
our  passions,  and  that  it  was  a  refuge  from  the  storms 
in  which  weak  mortals  are  tossed  and  shipwrecked  ; 
but  you  have  destroyed  my  security,  and  broken  this 
philosophic  courage.  I  have  despised  riches  ;  honour 
and  its  pageantries  could  never  raise  a  weak  thought 
in  me ;  beauty  alone  has  fired  my  soul.'  I  could  do 
nothing  but  write  verses  to  soothe  my  passion.    Love 


THE  ROilANXE  OF  PARIS  303 

was  my  inspiring  Apoi'o.  IMy  songs  were  spread 
abroad,  and  gained  me  frequent  applauses.  Those 
who  were  in  love,  as  I  was,  took  a  pride  in  learning 
them  ;  this  gave  our  amours  such  an  eclat,  that  the 
loves  of  Heloise  and  Abclard  were  the  subject  of  all 
conversations. 

The  gossip  of  Paris  at  last  reached  Fulbert's  ears. 
He  loved  his  niece,  and  was  prejudiced  in  my  favour  : 
he  surprised  us  in  one  of  our  tender  conversations. 
How  fatal  sometimes  are  the  consequences  of  curi- 
osity !  The  anger  of  Fulbert  seemed  too  moderate  on 
this  occasion,  and  I  feared  in  the  end  some  more 
heavy  revenge.  It  is  impossible  to  express  the  grief 
and  regret  which  filled  my  soul  when  I  was  obliged 
to  leave  Heloise.  But  this  separation  the  more  firmly 
united  our  minds,  and  the  desperate  condition  we 
were  reduced  to  made  us  capable  of  attempting  any- 
thing. 

I  was  infinitely  perplexed  what  course  to  take  :  at 
last  I  applied  myself  to  Heloise's  singing-master.  He 
was  excellently  qualified  for  convening  a  letter  with 
greatest  dexterity  and  secrecy.  He  delivered  one  for 
me  to  Heloise.  I  made  her  promise  to  quit  her  uncle's 
house,  and  at  break  of  day  depart  for  Britany  and  be 
under  the  care  of  my  sister.  I  took  the  journey  into 
Britany,  in  order  to  bring  back  Heloise,  to  be  my 
wife.  We  returned  to  Paris,  where  our  marriage  took 
place,  and  as  it  should  be  kept  as  yet  a  secret,  Heloise 
retired  among  the  nuns  of  Argenteuil. 

I  now  thought  Fulbert's  anger  disarmed ;  I  lived 
in  peace ;  but  alas  !  our  marriage  proved  but  a  weak 
defence  against  his  revenge.  Observe,  Philintus,  to 
what  a  barbarity  he  pursued  it.  He  bribed  my  ser- 
vants ;  an  assaooin  came  into  my  chamber  at  night ; 


304  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

I  suffered  the  most  shameful  punishment  that  the 
revenge  of  an  enemy  could  invent.  I  confess  to  you, 
shame  more  than  any  sincere  penitence  made  me 
resolve  to  hide  myself  from  the  sight  of  men,  yet 
could  I  not  separate  myself  from  Heloise.  Jealousy 
took  possession  of  my  mind  ;  and  at  the  very  expense 
of  her  happiness  I  decreed  to  disappoint  all  rivals. 
Before  I  put  myself  in  a  cloister,  I  obliged  her  to  take 
the  habit  and  retire  into  the  nunnery  of  Argenteuil. 
Ah,  Philintus  !  does  not  the  love  of  Heloise  still  burn 
in  my  heart  ?  I  have  not  yet  triumphed  over  that 
unhappy  passion.  In  the  midst  of  my  retirement  I 
weep,  I  sigh,  I  speak  that  dear  name  Heloise,  and 
am  pleased  to  hear  the  sound. 

PIERRE   ABELARDUS. 


JOHN  EVELYN  AT  TPIE  COURT  OF  LOUIS  XIV. 

1651. — 7  Sept. — I  went  to  visite  Mr.  Hobbs,  the 
famous  philosopher  of  Malmsbury,  with  whom  I  had 
long  acquaintance.  From  his  window  we  saw  the 
whole  equipage  and  glorious  cavalcade  of  the  young 
French  Monarch  Lewis  XIV.  passing  to  Parliament 
when  first  he  tooke  the  kingly  government  on  him, 
now  being  in  his  14th  yeare,  out  of  his  minority  and 
the  Queene  Regent's  pupillage.  First  came  the  cap- 
taine  of  the  King's  aydes  at  the  head  of  50  richly 
liveried  ;  next  the  Queene  Mother's  light  horse,  an 
hundred,  the  lieutenant  being  all  over  cover'd  with 
embroiderie  and  ribbans,  having  before  him  4  trum- 
pets habited  in  black  velvet,  full  of  lace  and  casques 
of  the  same  ;  then  the  King's  light  horse,  200,  richly 
habited,  with  4  trumpets  in  blue  velvet  embrodred 
with  gold,  before  whom  rid  the  Count  d'Olonne  comet, 


THE  RO.MANCE  OF  PARIS  303 

whose  belt  was  set  with  pearle  ;  next  went  the  grand 
Prevost's  company  on  foote  with  the  Prevost  on 
horseback  ;   after  them  the  Swisse  in  black  velvet 
toques  led  by  2  gallant  cavaUeres  habited  in  scarlet- 
colour'd  sattin  after  their  country  fashion,  which  is 
very  fantastick  ;  he  had  in  his  cap  a  pennach  of  heron 
with  a  band  of  diamonds,  and  about  him  12  little 
Swisse  boyes  with  halberds  ;  then  came  the  Ayde  des 
Ceremonies  ;  next  the  grandees  of  court,  governors  of 
places,  and  lieutenants-general  of  provinces,  magnifi- 
cently habited  and  mounted,  among  whom  I  must  not 
forget  the  Chavalier  Paul,  famous  for  many  sea-fights 
and  signal  exploits  there,  because  'tis  said  he  had 
never  been  an  Academist,  and  yet  govern'd  a  very 
unruly  horse,  and  besides  his  rich  suite,  his  Malta 
Cross  was  esteem'd  at  10,000  crownes  ;  these  were 
headed  by  2  trumpets,  and  the  whole  troup  cover'd 
with  gold,  jewels,  and  rich  caparisons,  were  foUow'd 
by  6  trumpets  in    blew  velvet   also,   preceding    as 
many  heralds  in  blew  velvet  semee  with  fleurs  de  lys, 
caduces  in  their  hands  and  velvet  caps  on  their  heads  ; 
behind  them  came  one  of  the  masters  of  the  cere- 
monies ;    then    divers    mairshalls    &    many    of    the 
nobility   exceeding   splendid ;    behind    them    Count 
d'Harcourt,  grand  escuyer,  alone,  carrying  the  King's 
sword  in  a  scarf,  which  he  held  up  in  a  blew  sheath 
studded  with  fleurs  de  lys  ;  his  horse  had  for  reines  2 
scarfs  of  black  taffata  ;  then  came  aboundance  of 
footemen  and  pages  of  the  King,  new  liveried  with 
white  and  red  feathers  ;  next  the  guard  de  corps  and 
other  officers  ;  and  lastly  appear'd  the  King  himselfe 
on  an  Isabella  Barb,  on  which  a  houssing  semee  with 
crosses  of  the  Order  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  and  fleurs  de 
lys  ;  the  King  himself  like  a  young  Apollo,  was  in  a 

20 


306  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

sute  so  cover'd  with  rich  embrodry,  that  one  could 
perceive  nothing  of  the  stuff  under  it ;  he  went  almost 
the  whole  way  with  his  hat  in  hand,  saluting  the 
ladys  and  acclamators  who  had  fitll'd  the  windows 
with  their  beauty,  and  the  aire  with  Vive  le  Roy. 
He  seem'd  a  prince  of  a  grave  yet  sweete  countenance. 
After  the  King  follow'd  divers  greate  persons  of  the 
Court  exceeding  splendid,  also  his  esquires,  masters 
of  horse  on  foote,  then  the  company  of  Exempts  des 
Cards,  and  6  guards  of  Scotch  ;  'twixt  their  files  were 
divers  princes  of  the  blood,  dukes,  and  lords  ;  after 
all  these,  the  Queene's  guard  of  Swisse,  pages,  and 
footmen  ;  then  the  Queen  Mother  herselfe  in  a  rich 
coach,  with  Monsieur  the  King's  brother,  the  Duke 
of  Orleans,  and  some  other  lords  and  ladys  of  honour  ; 
about  the  coach  march'd  her  Exempts  des  Cards,  then 
the  company  of  the  King's  Cens  d'armes  well  mounted, 
150,  with  4  trumpets  and  as  many  of  the  Queene's  ; 
lastly,  an  innumerable  company  of  coaches  full  of 
ladys  and  gallants.  In  this  equipage  pass'd  the 
Monarch  to  the  Parliament,  henceforth  excercising  his 
kingly  government. 

15  Sept. — I  accompanied  Sir  Richard  Browne,  my 
father-in-law,  to  the  French  Court,  where  he  had  a 
favourable  audience  of  the  French  King  and  the 
Queene  his  mother,  congratulating  the  one  on  his 
coming  to  the  exercise  of  his  royal  charge,  and  the 
other's  prudent  and  happy  administration  during  her 
late  Regency,  desiring  both  to  preserve  the  same 
amitie  for  his  Master,  our  King,  as  they  had  hitherto 
done,  which  they  both  promis'd  with  many  civil  ex- 
pressions and  words  of  course  upon  such  occasions. 
We  were  accompanied  both  going  and  returning  by 
the  Introducer  of  Ambassadors  and  Ayd  of  Cere- 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  PARIS  307 

monies.  I  also  saw  the  audience  of  Morosini  the 
Ambassador  of  Venice,  and  divers  other  Ministers  of 
State  from  German  Princes,  Savoy,  etc. 

JOHN    EVELYN. 

NIGHT  IN  THE  STREETS  OF  OLD  PARIS 
D'Artagnan  in  Love 

D'Artagnan's  visit  to  M.  de  Tr^ville  being  ended,  he 
thoughtfully  took  the  longest  road  homewards.  Upon 
what  was  D'Artagnan  musing  that  he  wandered  thus 
from  his  path,  gazing  continually  up  at  the  stars, 
sometimes  a  smile  playing  upon  his  lips,  sometimes 
a  sigh  escaping  from  his  heart  ? 

He  was  thinking  of  Madame  Bonacieux.  To  him, 
but  a  5^oung  musketeer,  the  young  lady  was  almost 
an  ideal  of  love.  She  was  pretty,  mysterious,  learned 
in  almost  all  the  secrets  of  the  Court,  which  latter 
accomplishment  lent  such  a  charming  gravity  to  her 
pleasing  features.  He  suspected  her  of  not  being 
indifferent  to  wooing,  which  is  so  irresistible  a  charm 
for  those  novices  in  love.  ...  So  quickly  do  our 
dreams  move  when  borne  upon  the  wings  of  fancy 
that  D'Artagnan,  as  he  walked  under  the  stars  of 
Paris,  already  fancied  himself  arrested  by  a  messenger 
from  the  young  lady,  who  had  brought  him  perchance 
a  note  appointing  a  meeting,  or  a  gold  chain,  or  pos- 
sibly a  diamond.  .  .  .  Men  in  those  days  made  their 
way  in  the  world  by  means  of  ladies,  and  without 
blushing.  Such  ladies  as  were  beautiful  gave  them 
of  their  beauty  ;  such  as  were  rich  bestowed  also  part 
of  their  wealth  upon  them  ;  and  many  a  hero  of  that 
gallant  period  could  be  mentioned  who  would  neither 
have  won  his  spurs  in  the  hrst  place,  nor  his  battles 

20 — 2 


3o8  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

afterwards,   without  the  purse,   more  or  less  filled, 
which    his    mistress    fastened    to    his    saddle-bow. 
But  D'Artagnan  possessed  nothing.     Provincial  diffi- 
dence— that  slight  varnish,   that  ephemeral  flower, 
that  bloom  of  the  peach — had  been  blown  away  by 
the  unorthodox  counsels  which  the  three  musketeers 
gave  their  friend.     D'Artagnan  following  the  curious 
custom   of  the  times,   considered  himself  at   Paris 
as  on  a  campaign,  neither  more  nor  less  than  if  he 
had  been  in  Flanders — Spain  yonder,  woman  here. 
In  each  there  was  an  enemy  to  contend  with,  and 
contributions  to  be  levied.  .  .  .     D'Artagnan,  disposed 
to  become  some  day  the  most  tender  of  lovers,  was 
in  the  meantime  a  very  devoted  friend.     In  the  midst 
of  his  amorous  projects  upon  the  mercer's  wife,  the 
lovely  Madame  Bonacieux  was  the  very  lady  with 
whom  to  walk  in  the  plain  of  St.  Denis,  or  in  St.  Ger- 
main's fair  in  the  company  of  his  friends  Athos, 
Porthos,  and  Aramis.  .  .  .     Reflecting  on  his  future 
loves,  D'Artagnan  addressed  himself  to  the  beauti- 
ful night,  and  smiling  at  the  stars,  went  up  the  Rue 

Cherche-Midi,  or  Chasse-Midi,  as  it  was  then  called 

Paris  had  for  two  hours  past  been  dark,  and  fast 
began  to  be  deserted.  All  the  clocks  of  the  Faubourg 
Saint-Germain  were  striking  eleven.  It  was  de- 
lightful weather.  D'Artagnan  was  passing  along  a 
lane  upon  the  spot  where  the  Rue  d'Assas  is  now 
situated,  respiring  the  balmy  emanations  which  were 
borne  upon  the  wind  from  the  Rue  Vaugirard,  and 
which  arose  from  the  gardens  refreshed  by  the  dews 
of  evening  and  the  breeze  of  night.  From  a  distance 
resounded,  deadened,  however,  by  good  shutters,  the 
songs  of  the  merry-makers  enjoying  themselves  in  the 
scattered  saloons  of  the  plain.     When  he  reached  the 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  PARIS  309 

end  of  the  lane  D'Artagnan  turned  to  the  left.  The 
house  in  which  Aramis  dwelt  was  situated  between 
the  Rue  Cassette  and  the  Rue  Servandoni.  D'Ar- 
tagnan passed  the  Rue  Cassette,  and  caught  sight  of 
the  door  of  his  friend's  house,  shaded  by  a  mass  of 
sycamores  and  clematis,  which  formed  a  vast  arch 
above  it.  Alexandre  dumas. 

A  ROOM  IN  THE  LOUVRE 

'  Yesterday,'  said  the  Moon,  '  I  gazed  down  upon 
the  turmoil  of  Paris.  My  eye  penetrated  into  an 
apartment  of  the  Louvre.  There  I  saw  an  old  grand- 
mother, poorly  clad,  for  she  belonged  to  the  working 
class.  She  was  following  one  of  the  under  servants 
into  the  great  empty  throne-room.  This  was  the 
apartment  she  wanted  to  see — that  she  was  resolved 
to  see  ;  it  had  cost  her  many  a  little  sacrifice  and  many 
a  coaxing  word  to  penetrate  thus  far.  She  folded  her 
thin  hands,  and  looked  round  with  an  air  of  reverence, 
as  if  she  had  been  in  a  church. 

'  "  Here  it  was  !"  she  said,  "  here  !"  And  she 
approached  the  throne,  from  which  hung  the  rich 
velvet  fringed  with  gold  lace.  "  There,"  she  ex- 
claimed, "  there !"  and  she  knelt  and  kissed  the 
purple  carpet.     I  believe  she  was  actually  weeping. 

'  "  But  it  was  not  this  very  velvet  !"  observed  the 
footman,  and  a  smile  played  about  his  mouth. 

'  "  True,  but  it  was  this  very  place,"  replied  the 
woman,  "  and  it  must  have  looked  just  like  this." 

'  "  It  looked  so,  and  yet  it  did  not,"  observed  the 
man  :  "  the  windows  were  beaten  in,  and  the  doors 
were  off  their  hinges,  and  there  was  blood  upon  the 
floor." 


310  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

'  "  But  for  all  that  you  can  say,  my  grandson  died 
upon  the  throne  of  France.  Died  !"  mournfully  re- 
peated the  old  woman. 

'  I  do  not  think  another  word  was  spoken,  and  they 
soon  quitted  the  hall.  The  evening  twilight  faded, 
and  my  light  shone  vividly  upon  the  rich  velvet  that 
covered  the  throne  of  France. 

'  Now,  who  do  you  think  this  poor  woman  was  ? 
Listen  ;  I  will  tell  you  a  story. 

'  It  happened  in  the  Revolution  of  July,  on  the 
evening  of  the  most  brilUantly  victorious  day,  when 
every  house  was  a  fortress,  every  window  a  breast- 
work. The  people  stormed  the  Tuileries.  Even 
women  and  children  were  found  among  the  com- 
batants. They  penetrated  into  the  apartments  and 
halls  of  the  palace.  A  poor  half-grown  boy  in  a  ragged 
blouse  fought  among  the  older  insurgents.  Mortally 
wormded  with  several  bayonet  thrusts,  he  sank  down. 
This  happened  in  the  throne-room.  They  laid  the 
bleeding  youth  upon  the  throne  of  France,  wrapped 
the  velvet  round  his  wounds,  and  his  blood  streamed 
forth  upon  the  imperial  purple.  Th^re  was  a  pic- 
ture ! — the  splendid  hall,  the  fighting  groups  !  A 
torn  flag  lay  upon  the  ground,  the  tricolour  was 
waving  above  the  bayonets,  and  on  the  throne  lay 
the  poor  lad  with  the  pale  glorified  countenance,  his 
eyes  turned  towards  the  sky,  his  limbs  writhing  in  the 
death  agony,  his  breast  bare,  and  his  poor  tattered 
clothing  half  hidden  by  the  rich  velvet  embroidered 
with  silver  lilies.  At  the  boy's  cradle  a  prophecy 
had  been  spoken  :  "  He  will  die  on  the  throne  of 
France  !"  The  mother's  heart  had  fondly  imagined 
a  second  Napoleon. 

'  My  beams  have  kissed  the  wreath  of  immortelles 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  PARIS  311 

on  his  grave,  and  this  night  they  kissed  the  forehead 
of  the  old  grandame,  while  in  a  dream  the  picture 
floated  before  her  which  thou  mayest  draw — the  poor 
boy  on  the  throne  of  France.' 

HANS   CHRISTIAN   ANDERSEN. 


MADAME  DE  S^VIGN^  WRITES  TO  M.  DE  COULANGES 
On  a  Matter  of  Great  Importance 

Paris, 

Deconber  15,  1670. 

I  AM  going  to  tell  you  a  thing  the  most  astonishing, 
the  most  surprising,  the  most  marvellous,  the  most 
miraculous,  the  most  magnificent,  the  most  confound- 
ing, the  most  unheard  of,  the  most  singular,  the  most 
extraordinary,  the  most  incredible,  the  most  unfore- 
seen, the  greatest,  the  least,  the  rarest,  the  most 
common,  the  most  public,  the  most  private  till  to- 
day, the  most  brilliant,  the  most  enviable  ;  in  short, 
a  thing  of  which  there  is  but  one  example  in  past 
ages,  and  that  not  an  exact  one  neither  ;  a  thing  that 
we  cannot  believe  at  Paris ;  how  then  will  it  gain 
credit  at  Lyons  ?  a  thing  which  makes  everybody 
cry,  '  Lord,  have  mercy  upon  us  !'  a  thmg  which 
causes  the  greatest  joy  to  Madame  de  Rohan  and 
Madame  de  Hauterive  ;  a  thing,  in  fine,  which  is  to 
happen  on  Sunday  next,  when  those  who  are  present 
will  doubt  the  evidence  of  their  senses  ;  a  thing  which, 
though  it  is  to  be  done  on  Sunday,  yet  perhaps  will 
be  not  finished  on  Monday.  I  cannot  bring  myself  to 
tell  it  you  :  guess  what  it  is.  I  give  you  three  times 
to  do  it  in.  What,  not  a  word  to  throw  at  a  dog  ? 
Well,  then,   I   find  I  must  tell  you.     Monsieur  de 


312  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

Lauzun  is  to  be  married  next  Sunday  at  the  Louvre, 

to ,  pray  guess  to  whom  !     I  give  you  four  times 

to  do  it  in,  I  give  you  six,  I  give  you  a  hundred.  Says 
Madame  de  Coulanges,  '  It  is  really  very  hard  to 
guess  :  perhaps  it  is  Madame  de  la  Valliere.'  Indeed, 
madame,  it  is  not.  '  It  is  Mademoiselle  de  Retz, 
then.'  No,  nor  she  neither ;  you  are  extremely  pro- 
vincial. '  Lord  bless  me,'  say  you,  '  what  stupid 
wretches  we  are  !  It  is  Mademoiselle  de  Colbert  all 
the  while.'  Nay,  now  you  are  still  farther  from  the 
mark.  '  Why,  then,  it  must  certainly  be  Mademoiselle 
de  Crequy.'  You  have  it  not  yet.  Well,  I  find  I  must 
tell  you  at  last.  He  is  to  be  married  next  Sunday,  at 
the  Louvre,  with  the  King's  leave,  to  Mademoiselle, 
Mademoiselle  de — Mademoiselle — guess,  pray  guess 
her  name  :  he  is  to  be  married  to  Mademoiselle,  the 
great  Mademoiselle  ;  Mademoiselle,  daughter  to  the 
late  Monsieur  [Gaston  of  France,  Duke  of  Orleans]  ; 
Mademoiselle,  grand-daughter  of  King  Henry  IVth  ; 
Mademoiselle  d'Eu,  Mademoiselle  de  Dombes,  Made- 
moiselle de  Montpensier,  Mademoiselle  d'Orleans, 
Mademoiselle,  the  King's  cousin-german ;  Mademoi- 
selle, destined  to  the  throne,  Mademoiselle,  the  only 
match  in  France  that  was  worthy  of  Monsieur.  What 
glorious  matter  for  talk  !  If  you  should  burst  forth 
like  a  bedlamite,  say  we  have  told  you  a  lie,  that  it 
is  false,  that  we  are  making  a  jest  of  you,  and  that  a 
pretty  jest  it  is  without  wit  or  invention  ;  in  short, 
if  you  abuse  us,  we  shall  think  you  quite  in  the  right ; 
for  we  have  done  just  the  same  things  ourselves. 
Farewell,  you  will  find  by  the  letters  you  receive  this 
post,  whether  we  tell  you  truth  or  not. 

MARY,   MARCHIONESS   OF   silVIGNE. 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  PARIS  313 

LOUIS  XYI.  RETURNS  TO  PARIS  FROM  VERSAILLES 

The  bodyguards,  you  can  observe,  have  now  of  a 
verity  '  hoisted  the  National  Cockade,'  for  they  step 
forward  to  the  windows  or  balconies,  hat  aloft  in 
hand,  on  each  hat  a  new  tricolor  ;  and  fling  over  their 
bandoliers  in  sign  of  surrender ;  and  shout  '  Vive  la 
Nation  !'  To  which  how  can  the  generous  heart 
respond  but  with,  '  Vive  le  Roi  !  vivent  les  Gardes-du- 
Corps  '  ?  His  Majesty  himself  has  appeared  with 
Lafayette  on  the  balcony,  and  again  appears  :  '  Vive 
le  Roi '  greets  him  from  all  throats  ;  but  also  from 
some  one  throat  is  heard,  *  Le  Roi  a  Paris,  The  King 
to  Paris  !' 

Her  Majesty,  too,  on  demand,  shows  herself,  though 
there  is  peril  in  it  :  she  steps  out  on  the  balcony,  with 
her  little  boy  and  girl.  '  No  children,  Point  d'enfans  !' 
cry  the  voices.  She  gently  pushes  back  her  children  ; 
and  stands  alone,  her  hands  serenely  crossed  on  her 
breast :  '  Should  I  die,'  she  had  said,  *  I  will  do  it.' 
Such  serenity  of  heroism  has  its  effect.  Lafayette, 
with  ready  wit,  in  his  highflown  chivalrous  way,  takes 
that  fair  queenly  hand,  and,  reverently  kneeling, 
kisses  it  :  thereupon  the  people  do  shout  '  Vive  la 
Reine  !'  Nevertheless,  poor  Weber  *  saw  '  (or  even 
thought  he  saw  ;  for  hardly  the  third  part  of  poor 
Weber's  experiences,  in  such  hysterical  days,  will 
stand  scrutiny)  *  one  of  these  brigands  level  his 
musket  at  her  Majesty,' — with  or  without  intention 
to  shoot  ;  for  another  of  the  brigands  *  angrily  struck 
it  down.' 

So  that  all,  and  the  Queen  herself,  nay  the  very 
captain  of  the  bodyguards,  have  grown  national  1 
The  very  captain  of  the  bodyguards  steps  out  now 


314  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

with  Lafayette.  On  the  hat  of  the  repentant  man  is 
an  enonnous  tricolor  ;  large  as  a  soup-platter,  or  sun- 
flower ;  visible  to  the  utmost  forecourt.  He  takes 
the  national  oath  with  a  loud  voice,  elevating  his  hat ; 
at  which  sight  all  the  army  raise  their  bonnets  on 
their  bayonets,  with  shouts.  Sweet  is  reconcilement 
to  the  heart  of  man.  Lafayette  has  sworn  Flandre  ; 
he  swears  the  remaining  bodyguards,  down  in  the 
Marble  Court ;  the  people  clasp  them  in  their  arms  : — 
O  my  brothers,  why  would  ye  force  us  to  slay  you  ? 
Behold  there  is  joy  over  you,  as  over  returning 
prodigal  sons  ! — The  poor  bodyguards,  now  National 
and  tricolor,  exchange  bonnets,  exchange  arms ; 
there  shall  be  peace  and  fraternity.  And  still  '  Vive 
le  Roi ;'  and  also  '  Le  Roi  a  Paris,'  not  now  from  one 
throat,  but  from  all  throats  as  one,  for  it  is  the 
heart's  wish  of  all  mortals. 

Yes,  The  King  to  Paris  :  what  else  ?  Ministers  may 
consult,  and  National  Deputies  wag  their  heads  :  but 
there  is  now  no  other  possibility.  You  have  forced 
him  to  go  willingly.  *  At  one  o'clock  !'  Lafayette 
gives  audible  assurance  to  that  purpose  ;  and  universal 
insurrection,  with  immeasurable  shout,  and  a  dis- 
charge of  all  the  fire-arms,  clear  and  rusty,  great  and 
small,  that  it  has,  returns  him  acceptance.  What  a 
sound  ;  heard  for  leagues  :  a  doom-peal ! — That  sound 
too  rolls  away ;  into  the  silence  of  ages.  And  the 
Chateau  of  Versailles  stands  ever  since  vacant, 
hushed-still ;  its  spacious  Courts  grass-grown,  re- 
sponsive to  the  hoe  of  the  weeder.  .  .  . 

Now,  however,  the  short  hour  has  struck.  His 
Majesty  is  in  his  carriage,  with  his  Queen,  sister 
Elizabeth,  and  two  royal  children.  Not  for  another 
hour  can  the  infinite  procession  get  marshalled  and 


THE  ROM  ANTE  OF  PARIS  315 

under  way.     The  weather  is  dim  drizzUng  ■  the  mind 
confused  ;  the  noise  great. 

Processional  marches  not  a  few  our  world  has  seen  ; 
Roman  triumphs  and  ovations,  Cabiric  cymbal-beat- 
ings, royal  progresses,  Irish  funerals  ;  but  this  of  the 
French  Momrchy  marching  to  its  bed  remained  to  be 
seen.  Miles  long,  and  of  breadth  losing  itself  in  vague- 
ness, for  all  the  neighbouring  country  crowds  to  see. 
Slow  ;  stagnating  along  like  shoreless  lake,  yet  with  a 
noise  like  Niagara,  like  Babel  and  Bedlam.  A  splashing 
and  a  tramping  ;  a  hurrahing,  uproaring,  musket- 
volleying  ; — the  truest  segment  of  Chaos  seen  in  these 
latter  ages  !  Till  slowly  it  disembogue  itself,  in  the 
thickening  dusk,  into  expectant  Paris,  through  a 
double  row  of  faces  all  the  way  from  Passy  to  the 
H6tel-de-Ville. 

Consider  this  :  vanguard  of  national  troops  ;  with 
trains  of  artillery ;  of  pikemen  and  pikewomen, 
mounted  on  cannon,  on  carts,  hackney-coaches,  or 
foot  ; — tripudiating,  in  tricolor  ribbons  from  head  to 
heel  ;  loaves  stuck  on  the  points  of  baj-onets,  green 
boughs  stuck  in  gun-barrels.  Next,  as  main-march, 
'  fifty  cart-loads  of  corn,'  which  have  been  lent,  for 
peace,  from  the  stores  of  Versailles.  Behind  which 
follow  stragglers  of  the  Garde-du-Corps  ;  all  humili- 
ated, in  Grenadier  bonnets.  Close  on  these  comes 
the  royal  carriage  ;  come  royal  carriages ;  for  there 
are  a  hundred  National  Deputies  too,  among  whom 
sits  Mirabeau, — his  remarks  not  given.  Then  finally, 
pell-mell,  as  rearguard,  Flandre,  Swiss,  Hundred 
Swiss,  other  bodyguards,  brigands,  whosoever  cannot 
get  before.  Between  and  among  all  which  masses, 
flows  without  limit  Samt-Antoine,  and  the  Menadic 
Cohort.     Menadic  especially  about  the  royal  carriage  ; 


3i6  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

tnpudiating  there,  covered  with  tricolor ;  singing 
'  allusive  songs'  ;  pointing  with  one  hand  to  the  royal 
carriage,  which  the  allusions  hit,  and  pointing  to 
the  provision  waggons  with  the  other  hand,  and  these 
words  :  '  Courage,  Friends  !  We  shall  not  want 
bread  now;  we  are  bringing  you  the  Baker,  the 
Bakeress  and  the  Baker's  Boy  (le  Boulanger,  la 
Boulangere  et  le  petit  Mitron).' 

The  wet  day  draggles  the  tricolor,  but  the  joy  is 
unextinguishable.  Is  not  all  well  now  ?  '  Ah, 
Madame,  notre  bonne  Reine,'  said  some  of  these 
strong-women  some  days  hence — '  ah,  Madame,  our 
good  Queen,  don't  be  a  traitor  any  more  (ne  soyez 
plus  traitre),  and  we  will  all  love  you  !'  Poor  Weber 
went  splashing  along,  close  by  the  royal  carriage, 
with  the  tear  in  his  eye :  '  Their  Majesties  did  me  the 
honour,'  or  I  thought  they  did  it,  'to  testify,  from 
time  to  time,  by  shrugging  of  the  shoulders,  by  looks 
directed  to  Heaven,  the  emotions  they  felt.'  Thus, 
like  frail  cockle,  floats  the  royal  life-boat,  helmless, 
on  black  deluges  of  rascality. 

Mercier,  in  his  loose  way,  estimates  the  procession 
and  assistants  at  two  hundred  thousand.  He  says 
it  was  one  boundless  inarticulate  Haha  ; — transcendent 
world-laughter ;  comparable  to  the  Saturnalia  of  the 
ancients.  Why  not  ?  Here,  too  as  we  said,  is 
human  nature  once  more  human  ;  shudder  at  it  whoso 
is  of  shuddering  humour :  yet  behold  it  is  human. 
It  has  '  swallowed  all  formulas  ';  it  tripudiates  even 
so.  For  which  reason  they  that  collect  vases  and 
antiques,  with  figures  of  dancing  Bacchantes  '  in 
wild  and  ail-but  impossible  positions  '  may  look  with 
some  interest  on  it. 

Thus,   however,   has  the  slow-moving  Chaos,   or 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  PARIS  317 

modem  Saturnalia  of  the  ancients,  reached  the 
Barrier  ;  and  must  halt,  to  be  harangued  by  Maj'or 
Baill}'.  Thereafter  it  has  to  lumber  along,  between 
the  double  row  of  faces,  in  the  transcendent  heaven- 
lashing  Haha  ;  two  hours  longer,  towards  the  Hotel- 
de-\'ille.  Then  again  to  be  harangued  there,  by 
several  persons  ;  by  Moreau  de  Saint-Mcry  among 
others  ;  Moreau  of  the  Three-thousand  orders,  now 
National  Deputy  for  St.  Domingo.  To  all  which  poor 
Louis,  '  who  seemed  to  experience  a  slight  emotion' 
on  entering  this  town-hall,  can  answer  only  that  he 
'  comes  with  pleasure,  with  confidence  among  his 
people.'  Mayor  Bailly,  in  reporting  it,  forgets 
'  confidence ':  and  the  poor  Queen  says  eagerly : 
'  Add,  with  confidence.' — '  Messieurs,'  rejoins  Mayor 
Bailly,  '  you  are  happier  than  if  I  had  not  for- 
gotten.* 

Finally,  the  King  is  shown  on  an  upper  balcony, 
by  torchlight,  with  a  huge  tricolor  in  his  hat :  '  and 
all  the  people,'  says  Weber,  'grasped  one  another's 
hand  '; — thinking  now  surely  the  New  Era  was  born. 
Hardly  till  eleven  at  night  can  Royalty  get  to  its 
vacant,  long-deserted  Palace  of  the  Tuileries ;  to 
lodge  there,  somewhat  in  stroller-player  fashion.  It 
is  Tuesday,  the  sixth  of  October,  1789. 

Poor  Louis  has  two  other  Paris  processions  to 
make  :  one  ludicrous-ignominious  like  this  :  the  other 
not  ludicrous  nor  ignominious,  but  sorious,  nay 
sublime. 

THOMAS    CARLYLE. 


3i8  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 


LE  PETIT  HOMME  ROUGE 

An  old  tradition  of  Parisians  assumed  the  existence  of  a  little 
red  man,  who  was  said  to  appear  in  the  Tuileries  on  the  eve  of 
any  great  calamity  threatening  the  throne  of  France. 

I. 

Wish  I  may  never  move, 
If  I  haven't  done  every  duty  here, 

Forty  years  above, 
In  the  Tuileries  Palace,  year  by  year  ; 

Where — for  my  sins,  no  doubt — 

Often  I've  been  put  out. 
In  the  nook  where  I  sleep  whenever  I  can. 
By  a  visit,  at  night,  from  the  Little  Red  Man  ! 

II. 

Just  imagine,  my  dears, 
A  little  lame  devil  all  dress'd  in  red  3 

A  hump  right  up  to  his  ears  ; 
A  horrible  squint  and  a  carroty  head  ; 

A  nose  all  crooked  and  long  ; 

A  foot  with  a  double  prong  ; 
And  a  voice — preserve  us  ! — whenever  it  croaks. 
It's  notice  to  quit  to  the  Tuileries  folk. 

III. 

I  saw  him — I  mind  it  well — 
In  the  terrible  year  of  'Ninety-two  ; 

Nobles  and  priests  all  fell 
From  our  excellent  King — 'twas  a  sad  to-do  ! 

Then  he  came  in  a  blouse. 

Red-cap,  wooden  shoes. 
I  was  dozing  away  by  the  chimney  blaze. 
When  he  croaked  and  whistled  the  Marseillatse. 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  PARIS  319 

IV.  (9  Thermidor.) 

I  was  scrubbing  away, 
When  he  popp'd  up  the  gutter,  my  wits  to  scare  ; 

He  had  business  that  day 
With  the  excellent  citizen  Robespierre. 

Then  he  was  powder'd  fine, 

Talk'd  like  a  book  divine  ; 
And  as  if  at  himself,  with  a  look  so  prim. 
To  the  Being  Supreme  went  humming  a  hymn, 

V.  (March.  1814.) 

I'd  forgotten  him  quite 
(The  Terror  had  driven  him  out  of  my  head), 

When  he  appear'd  one  night  : 
'  The  excellent  Emperor's  doom'd  1'  I  said. 

Of  enemies'  plumes  a  crowd 

He  wore  in  a  toque,  quite  proud  ; 
And  sang  to  a  viol — I  mind  it  well — 
Vive  Henri  Quatre  !  and  Gabrielle.  .  .  . 

PIERRE-JEAN    DE   BERANGER. 


THE  TUILERIES,   1789 

The  Chateau  of  the  Tuileries  is  repainted,  regamished 
into  a  golden  royal  residence  ;  and  Lafayette  with  his 
blue  National  Guard  lies  encompassing  it,  as  blue 
Neptune  (in  the  language  of  poets)  does  an  island, 
wooingly.  Thither  may  the  wrecks  of  rehabilitated 
loyalty  gather,  if  it  will  become  constitutional ;  for 
constitutionalism  thinks  no  evil ;  sansculottism  itself 
rejoices  in  the  King's  countenance.  The  rubbish  of 
a  Menadic  Insurrection,  as  in  this  ever-kindly  world 


320  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

all  rubbish  can  and  must  be,  is  swept  aside  ;  and  so 
again,  on  clear  arena,  under  new  conditions,  with 
something  even  of  a  new  stateliness,  we  begin  a  new 
course  of  action. 

Arthur  Young  has  witnessed  the  strangest  scene  : 
Majesty  walking  unattended  in  the  Tuileries  Gardens  ; 
and  miscellaneous  tricolor  crowds,  who  cheer  it,  and 
reverently  make  way  for  it :  the  very  Queen  com- 
mands at  lowest  respectful  silence,  regretful  avoid- 
ance. Simple  ducks,  in  those  royal  waters,  quackle 
for  crumbs  from  young  royal  fingers :  the  little 
Dauphin  has  a  little  railed  garden,  where  he  is  seen 
delving,  with  ruddy  cheeks  and  flaxen  curled  hair ; 
also  a  little  hutch  to  put  his  tools  in,  and  screen  him- 
self against  showers.  What  peaceable  simplicity  !  Is 
it  peace  of  a  father  restored  to  his  children  ?  Or  of 
a  taskmaster  who  has  lost  his  whip  ?  Lafayette,  and 
the  Municipality  and  universal  constitutionalism 
assert  the  former,  and  do  what  is  in  them  to  realize 
it.  Such  patriotism  as  snarls  dangerously  and  shows 
teeth,  patrollotism  shall  suppress ;  or  far  better, 
royalty  shall  soothe  down  the  angry  hair  of  it,  by 
gentle  pattings  ;  and,  most  effectual  of  all,  by  fuller 
diet.  Yes,  not  only  shall  Paris  be  fed,  but  the  King's 
hand  be  seen  in  that  work.  The  household  goods  of 
the  poor  shall,  up  to  a  certain  amount,  by  royal 
bounty,  be  disengaged  from  pawn,  and  that  msatiable 
Mont  de  Piete  shall  disgorge  ;  rides  in  the  city  with 
their  Vive-le-Roi  need  not  fail ;  and  so  by  substance 
and  show,  shall  royalty,  if  man's  art  can  popularize 
it,  be  popularized.  .  .  . 

For  his  French  Majesty,  meanwhile,  one  of  the 
worst  things  is,  that  he  can  get  no  hunting.  Alas, 
no  hunting  henceforth  ;  only  a  fatal  being-hunted  ! 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  PARIS  321 

Scarcely,  in  the  next  June  weeks,  shall  he  taste  again 
the  joys  of  the  game-destroyer  ;  in  next  June,  and 
never  more.  He  sends  for  his  smith-tools  ;  gives,  in 
the  course  of  the  day,  official  or  ceremonial  business 
being  ended,  '  a  few  strokes  of  the  file,  quelqties  coups 
de  lime.'  Innocent  brother  mortal,  why  wert  thou 
not  an  obscure  substantial  maker  of  locks ;  but 
doomed  in  that  other  far-seen  craft,  to  be  a  maker 
only  of  world-follies,  unrealities  ;  things  self-destruc- 
tive, which  no  mortal  hammering  could  rivet  into 
coherence  ! 

Poor  Louis  is  not  without  insight,  nor  even  without 
the  elements  of  will ;  some  sharpness  of  temper, 
spurting  at  times  from  a  stagnating  character.  If 
harmless  inertness  could  save  him,  it  were  well ;  but 
he  will  slumber  and  painfully  dream,  and  to  do  aught 
is  not  given  him.  Royalist  antiquarians  still  show 
the  rooms  where  Majesty  and  suite,  in  these  extra- 
ordinary circimistances,  had  their  lodging.  Here  sat 
the  Queen  ;  reading, — for  she  had  her  library  brought 
hither,  though  the  King  refused  his  ;  taking  vehe- 
ment counsel  of  the  vehement  uncounselled  ;  sorrow- 
ing over  altered  times  ;  yet  with  sure  hope  of  better  : 
in  her  young  rosy  boy  has  she  not  the  living  emblem 
of  hope  !  It  is  a  murky,  working  sky  ;  yet  with  golden 
gleams — of  dawn,  or  of  deeper  meteoric  night  ?  Here 
again  this  chamber,  on  the  other  side  of  the  main 
entrance,  was  the  King's  :  here  his  Majesty  break- 
fasted, and  did  official  work  ;  here  daily  after  break- 
fast he  received  the  Queen  ;  sometimes  in  pathetic 
friendliness  ;  sometimes  in  human  sulkiness,  for  flesh 
is  weak  ;  and  when  questioned  about  business,  would 
answer  : '  Madame,  your  business  is  with  the  children.' 
Nay,  Sire,  were  it  not  better  you,  your  Majesty's  self, 

21 


323  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

took  the  children  ?  So  asks  impartial  History ; 
scornful  that  the  thicker  vessel  was  not  also  the 
stronger ;  pity-struck  for  the  porcelain  clay  of 
humanity  rather  than  for  the  tile-clay, — though 
indeed  both  were  broken  ! 

So,  however,  in  this  Medicean  Tuileries,  shall  the 
French  Kmg  and  Queen  now  sit  for  one-and-forty 
months  ;  and  see  a  wild-fermenting  France  work  out 
its  own  destiny,  and  theirs.  Months  bleak,  ungenial, 
of  rapid  vicissitude  ;  yet  with  a  mild  pale  splendour, 
here  and  there  :  as  of  an  April  that  were  leading  to 
leafiest  Summer ;  as  of  an  October  that  led  only  to 
everlasting  Frost.  Medicean  Tuileries,  how  changed 
since  it  was  a  peaceful  tile-field  ! 

THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

NAPOLEON'S  FAREWELL 
I. 

Farewell  to  the  Land  where  the  gloom  of  my  Glory 
Arose  and  o'ershadow'd  the  earth  with  her  name — 
She  abandons  me  now — but  the  page  of  her  story, 
The  brightest  or  blackest,  is  fill'd  with  my  fame. 
I  have  warr'd  with  a  world  which  vanquish'd  me  only 
When  the  meteor  of  conquest  allured  me  too  far  ; 
I  have  coped  with  the  nations  which  dread  me  thus 

lonely. 
The  last  single  Captive  to  millions  in  war. 

II. 
Farewell  to  thee,  France !  when  thy  diadem  crown'd  me, 
I  made  thee  the  gem  and  the  wonder  of  earth. 
But  thy  weakness  decrees  I  should  leave  as  I  found 

thee, 
Decay'd  in  thy  glory,  and  sunk  in  thy  worth. 


THE  ROMANXE  OF  PARIS  323 

Oh  !  for  the  veteran  hearts  that  were  wasted 

In  strife  with  the  storm,  when  their  battles  were 

won — 
Then  the  Eagle,  whose  gaze  in  that  moment  was 

blasted, 
Had  still  soar'd  with  eyes  fix'd  on  victory's  sun  ! 

III. 

Farewell  to  thee,  France  ! — but  when  Liberty  rallies 
Once  more  in  thy  regions,  remember  me  then, — 
The  violet  still  grows  in  the  depth  of  thy  valleys  ; 
Though  wither'd,  thy  tear  will  unfold  it  again — 
Yet,  yet,  I  may  baffle  the  hosts  that  surround  us, 
And  yet  may  thy  heart  leap  awake  to  my  voice — 
There  are  links  which  must  break  in  the  chain  that 

has  bound  us. 
Then  turn  thee  and  call  on  the  Chief  of  thy  choice  ! 

LORD    BYRON. 
From  the  French. 

OX  THE  STAR  OF  '  THE  LEGION  OF  HONOUR  ' 

Star  of  the  brave  !— whose  beam  hath  shed 

Such  glory  o'er  the  quick  and  dead — 

Thou  radiant  and  adored  deceit  ! 

Which  millions  rush'd  in  arms  to  greet, — 

Wild  meteor  of  immortal  birth  ; 

Why  rise  in  Heaven  to  set  on  Earth  ? 

Souls  of  slain  heroes  form'd  thy  rays  ; 
Eternity  flash'd  through  thy  blaze  ; 
The  music  of  thy  martial  sphere 
Was  fame  on  high  and  honour  here  j 
And  thy  light  broke  on  human  eyes. 
Like  a  volcano  of  the  skies. 

21 — 2 


324  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

Like  lava  roU'd  thy  stream  of  blood, 
And  swept  down  empires  with  its  flood  ; 
Earth  rock'd  beneath  thee  to  her  base, 
As  thou  didst  lighten  through  all  space  ; 
And  the  shorn  Sun  grew  dim  in  air, 
And  set  while  thou  wert  dwelling  there. 

Before  thee  rose,  and  with  thee  grew, 

A  rainbow  of  the  loveliest  hue 

Of  three  bright  colours,  each  divine. 

And  fit  for  that  celestial  sign  ; 

For  Freedom's  hand  had  blended  them. 

Like  tints  in  an  immortal  gem. 

One  tint  was  of  the  sunbeam's  dyes  ; 
One,  the  blue  depth  of  Seraph's  eyes  ; 
One,  the  pure  Spirit's  veil  of  white 
Had  robed  in  radiance  of  its  light : 
The  three  so  mingled  did  beseem 
The  texture  of  a  heavenly  dream. 

Star  of  the  brave  !  thy  ray  is  pale, 
And  darkness  must  again  prevail ! 
But,  oh  thou  Rainbow  of  the  free  ! 
Our  tears  and  blood  must  flow  for  thee. 
When  thy  bright  promise  fades  away. 
Our  Hfe  is  but  a  load  of  clay. 

And  Freedom  hallows  with  her  tread 
The  silent  cities  of  the  dead  ; 
For  beautiful  in  death  are  they 
Who  proudly  fall  in  her  array  ; 
And  soon,  oh  Goddess  !  may  we  be 
For  evermore  with  them  or  thee  ! 


LORD    BYRON. 
From  the  French. 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  PARIS  325 

OLD  PIERRE'S  STORY 
At  Paris,  hard  by  the  Maine  barriers. 

Whoever  will  choose  to  repair, 
'Midst  a  dozen  of  wooden-legged  warriors 

May  haply  fall  in  with  old  Pierre, 
On  the  sunshiny  bench  of  a  tavern 

He  sits  and  he  prates  of  old  wars, 
And  moistens  his  pipe  of  tobacco 

With  a  drink  that  is  named  after  Mars. 

The  beer  makes  his  tongue  run  the  quicker. 

And  as  long  as  his  tap  never  fails, 
Thus  over  his  favourite  liquor 

Old  Peter  will  tell  his  old  tales. 
Says  he,  '  In  my  life's  ninety  summers 

Strange  changes  and  chances  I've  seen, — 
So  here's  to  all  gentlemen  drummers 

That  ever  have  thumped  on  a  skin. 

'  You  all  know  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  ? 

'Tis  hard  by  the  Tuileries  wall. 
Mid  terraces,  fountains,  and  statues. 

There  rises  an  obelisk  tall, 
There  rises  an  obelisk  tall. 

All  garnish'd  and  gilded  the  base  is  : 
'Tis  surely  the  gayest  of  aU 

Our  beautiful  city's  gay  places. 

'  Around  it  are  gardens  and  flowers. 

And  the  Cities  of  France  on  their  thrones, 
Each  crown 'd  with  his  circlet  of  flowers 

Sits  watching  this  biggest  of  stones  ! 
I  love  to  go  sit  in  the  sun  there, 

The  flowers  and  fountains  to  see. 
And  to  think  of  the  deeds  that  were  done  there 

In  the  glorious  year  ninety-three. 


326  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

'  'Twas  here  stood  the  Altar  of  Freedom  ; 

And  though  neither  marble  nor  gilding 
Was  used  in  those  days  to  adorn 

Our  simple  republican  building, 
Corbleu  !  but  the  M^re  Guillotine 

Cared  little  for  splendour  or  show, 
So  you  gave  her  an  axe  and  a  beam, 

And  a  plank  and  a  basket  or  so. 

*  Awful,  and  proud,  and  erect. 

Here  sat  our  republican  goddess. 
Each  morning  her  table  we  deck'd 

With  dainty  aristocrats'  bodies. 
The  people  each  day  flock'd  around 

As  she  sat  at  her  meat  and  her  wine  : 
'Twas  always  the  use  of  our  nation 

To  witness  the  Sovereign  dins. 

*  Young  virgins  with  fair  golden  tresses, 

Old  silver-hair'd  prelates  and  priests, 
Dukes,  marquises,  barons,  princesses, 

Were  splendidly  served  at  her  feasts. 
Ventre  bleu  !  but  we  pamper'd  our  ogress 

With  the  best  that  our  nation  could  bring, 
And  dainty  she  grew  in  her  progress. 

And  call'd  for  the  head  of  a  King  ! 

'  She  called  for  the  blood  of  our  King, 

And  straight  from  his  prison  we  drew  him  ; 
And  to  her  with  shouting  we  led  him  ; 

And  took  him,  and  bound  him,  and  slew  him. 
"  The  monarchs  of  Europe  against  me 

Have  plotted  a  godless  alliance  : 
I'll  fling  them  the  head  of  King  Louis," 

She  said,  "  as  my  gage  of  defiance." 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  PARIS  327 

'  I  see  him  as  now,  for  a  moment, 

Away  from  his  gaolers  he  broke  ■ 
And  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  scaffold, 

And  lingered,  and  fain  would  have  spoke. 
"  Ho,  drummer  !  quick,  silence  yon  Capet," 

Says  Santerre,  "  with  a  beat  of  your  drum." 
Lustily  then  did  I  tap  it. 

And  the  son  of  Saint  Louis  was  dumb.' 

WILLIAM    MAKEPEACE    THACKER.W. 

LA   PARISIENNE 
Behold  !  thou  nation  of  the  brave, 

How  Freedom's  arms  are  opened  wide. 
They  sought  the  people  to  enslave. 

'  To  arms  !  to  arms  !'  the  people  cried  j 
Once  more  has  our  own  Paris  found 
The  battle-cry  of  old  renowned. 
Haste  the  foe  to  meet, 
Think  not  of  retreat, 
Let  not  steel  or  lire  a  patriot  defeat. 

A  compact  mass,  that  nought  can  shake. 
Close  each  to  each  all  firmly  stand  ; 

Let  every  man  his  cartridge  make 
An  offering  to  his  native  land. 

Oh,  days  !  with  glory  to  be  crowned  ; 

Paris  her  ancient  cry  has  found. 

Beneath  their  fire  though  many  fall. 
Fresh  warriors  spring  before  our  eyes. 

Beneath  the  constant  shower  of  ball 
Vet'rans  of  twenty  years  arise. 

Oh,  days  !  with  glory  to  be  crowned  ; 

Paris  her  ancient  cry  has  found. 


328  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

Who  as  our  leader  now  appears  ? 

Who  guides  our  banners — nobly  red  ? 
The  freedom  of  two  hemispheres  ; 

'Tis  Lafayette,  with  the  snowy  head  ! 
Oh,  days  !  with  glory  to  be  crowned  ; 
Paris  her  ancient  cry  has  found. 

The  tricolour  is  raised  on  high  ; 

With  holy  rapture  we  can  see, 
Shining  against  a  cloudy  sky. 

The  rainbow  of  our  liberty. 
Oh,  days  !  with  glory  to  be  crowned  ; 
Paris  her  ancient  cry  has  found. 

Thou  soldier  of  the  tricolour — 

Orleans — who  bore  it  long  ago, 
Thy  heart's  blood  thou  wouldst  freely  pour 

With  that  we  see  already  flow. 
Oh,  days  !  with  glory  to  be  crowned  ; 
Paris  her  ancient  cry  has  found. 

Ye  drums,  roll  forth  the  sound  of  death. 

Proclaim  our  brethren's  early  doom, 
And  let  us  cast  the  laurel  wreath 

Upon  their  honourable  tomb. 
Temple  with  bays  and  cypress  crowned. 
Receive  them  in  thy  vaults  profound. 
March  with  noiseless  feet. 
Bare  your  heads  to  greet 
That  pantheon,  which  their  glory  makes  com- 
plete. 

CASIMIR   DELAVIGNE. 


PARIS  OF  THE  PAST 


The  Paris  of  my  childhood  and  youth — the  Paxis  of  times 
gone  by  in  the  course  of  centuries,  has  undergone  many 
transformations  ;  ...  in  spite  of  its  drawbacks  and  blemishes, 
the  Paris  of  that  period  had  its  own  charm.  ...  I  regret  the 
old  Paris,  but  I  am  fond  of  the  new. 

VICTORIEN    SARDOU, 


Paris — not  the  Paris  of  M.  le  Baron  Haussmann,  lighted  by 
gas  and  electricity,  and  flushed  and  drained  by  modern  science ; 
but  the  '  good  old  Paris  '  of  Balzac  and  Eugene  Sue  and 
Les  Mysteres — the  Paris  of  dim  oil  lanterns  suspended  from 
iron  gibbets  (where  once  aristocrats  had  been  hung).  .  .  , 
Streets — and  these  by  no  means  the  least  fascinating  and 
romantic — where  the  unwritten  domestic  records  of  every 
house  were  afloat  in  the  air  outside  it — records  not  all  savoury 
or  sweet,  but  always  full  of  interest  and  charm  ! 

GEORGE    DU    MAURIER. 


Between  her  broad  and  winding  river,  Paris  lies,  a  two- 
volumed  tale  of  romance  ;  on  every  leaf,  as  you  turn  it, 
matters  for  musing  and  rapture,  life  around  you  full  to  over- 
flowing— the  life  that  has  been  lived  still  vivid  to  remem- 
brance, not  clothed  in  sadness,  but  in  the  gracious  gaiety  of 
tradition. 

HANNAH    LYNCH. 


DESCRIPTIOX  OF  OLD  PARIS 

The  victories  of  Julian  suspended,  for  a  short  time, 
the  inroads  of  the  Barbarians,  and  delayed  the  ruin 
of  the  Western  Empire.  His  salutary  influence  re- 
stored the  cities  of  Gaul,  which  had  been  so  long 
exposed  to  the  evils  of  civil  discord,  barbarian  war, 
and  domestic  tyranny  ;  and  the  spirit  of  industry  was 
revived  with  the  hopes  of  enjoyment.  Agriculture, 
manufactures,  and  commerce  again  flourished  under 
the  protection  of  the  laws  ;  and  the  entice,  or  civil 
corporations,  were  again  filled  with  useful  and  re- 
spectable members  :  the  youth  were  no  longer  appre- 
hensive of  marriage  ;  and  married  persons  were  no 
longer  apprehensive  of  posterity' :  the  pubhc  and 
private  festivals  were  celebrated  with  customary 
pomp  ;  and  frequent  and  secure  intercourse  of  the 
provinces  displayed  the  image  of  national  prosperity. 
A  mind  like  that  of  Julian  must  have  left  the  general 
happiness  of  which  he  was  the  author  :  but  he  viewed 
with  peculiar  satisfaction  and  complacency  the  city 
of  Paris,  the  seat  of  his  winter  residence,  and  the 
object  even  of  his  partial  affection.  That  splendid 
capital,  which  now  embraces  an  ample  territory  on 
either  side  of  the  Seine,  was  originally  confined  to 
the  small  island  in  the  midst  of  the  river,  from  whence 
the  inhabitants  derived  a  supply  of  pure  and  salu- 
brious water.  The  river  bathed  the  foot  of  the  walls  ; 
and  the  town  was  accessible  only  by  two  wooden 
bridges.  A  forest  overspread  the  northern  side  of  the 
331 


332  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

Seine  ;  but  on  the  south,  the  ground,  which  now 
bears  the  name  of  the  university,  was  insensibly 
covered  with  houses,  and  adorned  with  a  palace  and 
amphitheatre,  baths,  an  aqueduct,  and  a  field  of  Mars 
for  the  exercise  for  the  Roman  troops.  The  severity 
of  the  chmate  was  tempered  by  the  neighbourhood 
of  the  ocean  ;  and  with  some  precautions,  which  ex- 
perience had  taught,  the  vine  and  fig-tree  were  success- 
fully cultivated.  But  in  remarkable  winters,  the 
Seine  was  deeply  frozen  ;  and  the  huge  pieces  of  ice 
that  floated  down  the  stream  might  be  compared,  by 
an  Asiatic,  to  the  blocks  of  white  marble  which  were 
extracted  from  the  quarries  of  Phrygia.  The  licen- 
tiousness and  corruption  of  Antioch  recalled  to  the 
memory  of  Juhan  the  severe  and  simple  manners  of 
his  beloved  Lutetia, — the  ancient  name  of  the  city 
of  Paris — where  the  amusements  of  the  theatre  were 
unknown  or  despised.  He  indignantly  contrasted  the 
effeminate  Syrians  with  the  brave  and  honest  sim- 
pHcity  of  the  Gauls,  and  almost  forgave  the  intemper- 
ance which  was  the  only  stain  on  the  Celtic  character. 
If  Julian  could  now  revisit  the  capital  of  France,  he 
might  converse  with  men  of  science  and  genius, 
capable  of  understanding  and  of  instructing  a  disciple 
of  the  Greeks  ;  he  might  excuse  the  Hvely  and  graceful 
follies  of  a  nation  whose  martial  spirit  has  never  been 
enervated  by  the  indulgence  of  luxury  ;  and  he  must 
applaud  the  perfection  of  that  inestimable  art  which 
softens  and  refines  and  embellishes  the  intercourse 
of  social  life. 

EDWARD    GIBBON. 


PARIS  OF  THE  PAST  333 

A  CHAPTER  FROM  FROISSART 
Paris  receives  the  King  of  France 
As  the  French  army  approached  the  city  of  Paris,  on 
its  return  from  Flanders,  the  king  and  his  lords  sent 
forward  their  servants  to  order  the  Louvre  and  other 
different  hotels  to  be  prepared  for  their  reception. 
This  they  were  advised  to  do  by  way  of  precaution, 
in  order  to  try  the  feelings  of  the  Parisians,  as  they 
were  not  at  all  to  be  depended  upon  ;  special  injunc- 
tions were  given  to  these  servants,  if  they  were  asked 
any  questions  about  the  king,  to  reply  that  he  would 
be  with  them  shortly.  The  Parisians,  finding  this  to 
be  the  case,  resolved  to  ann  themselves  and  display 
to  the  king,  on  his  entrance  into  Paris,  the  force  that 
the  city  contained.  It  would  have  been  far  better 
for  them  had  they  remained  quiet,  for  this  display 
cost  them  dearly.  They  professed  that  it  was  done 
by  them  with  good  intentions  ;  but  it  was  taken  in  a 
far  different  sense  ;  for  the  king,  when  the  news  of 
this  assembling  of  the  people  was  brought  to  him, 
said  to  his  lords  :  '  See  the  pride  and  presumption  of 
this  mob.  What  are  they  now  making  this  display 
for  ?'  To  which  remark  some,  who  were  desirous  of 
making  an  attack  upon  the  Parisians  at  once,  added  : 
'  If  the  king  be  well  advised,  he  will  not  put  himself 
in  the  power  of  these  people,  who  are  coming  to 
meet  him  fully  armed,  when  they  ought  to  come  in 
all  humility,  returning  thanks  to  God  for  the  great 
victory  which  he  has  given  us  in  Flanders.'  Upon 
the  whole,  however,  the  lords  were  somewhat  puzzled 
how  to  act ;  and,  after  much  hesitation,  it  was  deter- 
mined that  the  Constable  of  France,  with  several 
others,  should  meet  the  Parisians,  and  inquire  for 


334  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

what  reason  they  had  come  out  of  the  city  in  such  a 
body.  When  this  question  was  put  to  them,  the 
chiefs  of  the  Parisians  made  answer,  '  We  have  come 
out  in  this  manner  to  display  to  our  lord  the  king  the 
force  we  possess  ;  he  is  very  young,  and  has  never 
seen  it ;  and  if  he  should  not  be  made  acquainted  with 
it,  he  can,  of  course,  never  know  what  service  he  may 
draw  from  us  when  occasion  requires  it.'  '  Well, 
gentlemen,'  answered  the  constable,  '  you  speak 
fairly ;  but  we  tell  you  from  the  king,  that  at  this 
time  he  does  not  wish  to  see  such  a  display,  and  that 
what  you  have  done  has  been  sufficient  for  him. 
Return  instantly  to  your  own  homes  ;  and  if  you  wish 
the  king  to  come  to  Paris,  lay  aside  your  arms.' 
'  My  lord,'  they  replied,  '  your  orders  shall  be  cheer- 
fully obeyed.'  Upon  this,  the  Parisians  returned  to 
the  city,  and  the  constable  and  his  companions  re- 
ported to  the  king  and  his  council  the  result  of  their 
interview.  As  soon  as  it  was  known  that  the  Parisians 
had  retired,  the  king,  with  his  uncles  and  principal 
lords,  set  out  for  Paris,  attended  by  a  few  men-at- 
arms,  the  main  body  being  left  near  the  city  to  keep 
the  Parisians  in  awe.  The  Lord  de  Coucy  and  the 
Marshal  de  Sancerre  were  sent  forward  to  take  the 
gates  off  their  hinges  at  the  principal  entrances  of 
St.  Denis  and  St.  Marcel,  so  that  the  way  might  be 
clear  night  and  day  for  the  forces  to  enter  the  city, 
and  master  the  Parisians,  should  there  be  any  occa- 
sion to  do  so  ;  they  were  also  instructed  to  remove 
the  chains  which  had  been  thrown  across  the  streets, 
in  order  that  the  cavalry  might  pass  through  without 
danger  or  opposition.  The  Parisians,  on  seeing  these 
preparations,  were  in  the  greatest  possible  alarm, 
and  so  fearful    of   being   punished   for   what   they 


PARIS  OF  THE  PAST  335 

had  done,  that,  as  the  king  entered  the  city,  none 
dared  to  venture  out  of  doors,  or  even  to  open  a 
window. 

SIR   JOHN    FROISSART. 


OLD  PARIS  RECONSTRUCTED 

Admirable  as  you  may  think  the  present  Paris,  re- 
construct in  your  imagination  the  Paris  of  the 
fifteenth  century — look  at  the  sky,  through  that  sur- 
prising forest  of  spires,  towers,  and  steeples — spread 
out  amidst  the  vast  city,  tear  asunder  at  the  points 
of  the  islands,  and  fold  round  the  piers  of  the  bridges, 
the  Seine,  with  its  broad  green  and  yellow  flakes,  more 
variegated  than  the  skin  of  a  serpent — project  dis- 
tinctly upon  a  horizon  of  azure  the  Gothic  profile  of 
that  old  Paris — make  its  outline  float  in  a  wintry 
mist  clinging  to  its  innumerable  chimneys — plunge 
it  in  deep  night,  and  observe  the  fantastic  play  of  the 
darkness  and  the  lights  in  that  gloomy  labj-Tinth  of 
buildings — cast  upon  it  a  ray  of  moonlight,  showing 
it  in  glimmering  vagueness,  with  its  towers  lifting 
their  great  heads  from  that  foggy  sea — or  draw  that 
dark  veil  aside,  cast  into  shade  the  thousand  sharp 
angles  of  its  spires  and  its  gables,  and  exhibit  it  all 
fantastically  indented  upon  the  glowing  western  sky 
at  sunset — and  then  compare. 

And  if  you  would  receive  from  the  old  city  an  im- 
pression which  the  modern  one  is  quite  incapable  of 
giving  you,  ascend,  on  the  morning  of  some  great 
holiday,  at  sunrise,  on  Easter,  or  Whit-Sunday,  to 
some  elevated  point  from  which  your  eye  can  com- 
mand the  whole  capital — and  attend  the  awakening 
of  the  chimes.     Behold,  at  a  signal  from  heaven — 


336  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

for  it  is  the  sun  that  gives  it — those  thousand  churches 
starting  from  their  sleep.  At  first  you  hear  only 
scattered  tinklings,  going  from  church  to  church,  as 
when  musicians  are  giving  one  another  notice  to 
begin.  Then,  all  on  a  sudden,  behold — for  there  are 
moments  when  the  ear  itself  seems  to  see — behold 
ascending  at  the  same  moment,  from  every  steeple, 
a  column  of  sound,  as  it  were,  a  cloud  of  harmony. 
At  first  the  vibration  of  each  bell  mounts  up  direct, 
clear,  and,  as  it  were,  isolated  from  the  rest,  into  the 
splendid  morning  sky ;  then,  by  degrees,  as  they 
expand,  they  mingle,  unite,  are  lost  in  each  other, 
and  confounded  in  one  magnificent  concert.  Then 
it  is  all  one  mass  of  sonorous  vibrations  incessantly 
sent  forth  from  the  innumerable  steeples — floating, 
undulating,  bounding,  and  eddying,  over  the  town, 
and  extending  far  beyond  the  horizon  the  deafening 
circle  of  its  oscillations.  Yet  that  sea  of  harmony  is 
not  a  chaos.  Wide  and  deep  as  it  is,  it  has  not  lost 
its  transparency ;  you  perceive  the  windings  of  each 
group  of  notes  that  escapes  from  the  several  rings  ; 
you  can  follow  the  dialogue  by  turns  grave  and 
clamorous,  of  the  crecelle  and  the  bourdon  ;  you  per- 
ceive the  octaves  leaping  from  one  steeple  to  another; 
you  observe  them  springing  aloft,  winged,  light,  and 
whistling,  from  the  bell  of  silver ;  falling  broken  and 
limping  from  the  bell  of  wood.  You  admire  among 
them  the  rich  gamut  incessantly  descending  and  re- 
ascending  the  seven  bells  of  Saint-Eustache  ;  and  you 
see  clear  and  rapid  notes,  running  across,  as  it  were, 
in  three  or  four  luminous  zigzags,  and  vanishing  like 
flashes  of  lightning.  Down  there  you  see  Saint- 
Martin's  Abbey,  a  shrill  and  broken-voiced  songstress  ; 
here  is  the  sinister  and  sullen  voice  of  the  Bastille  ; 


PARIS  OF  THE  PAST  337 

and  at  the  other  end  is  the  great  tower  of  the  Louvre, 
with  its  counter-tenor.  The  royal  chime  of  the  Palais 
unceasingly  casts  on  every  side  resplendent  trilhngs, 
upon  which  fall,  at  regular  intervals,  the  heavy  strokes 
from  the  great  bell  of  Notre-Dame,  which  strike 
sparkles  from  them  like  the  hammer  upon  the  anvil. 
At  intervals,  j'ou  perceive  sounds  pass  by  of  every 
form,  from  the  triple  peal  of  Saint-Germain-des-Pres. 
Then,  again,  from  time  to  time,  that  mass  of  sublime 
sounds  half  opens,  and  gives  passage  to  the  stretto  of 
the  Ave-Maria,  which  glitters  like  an  aigrette  of  stars. 
Below,  in  the  deepest  of  the  concert,  you  distinguish 
confusedly  the  internal  music  of  the  churches,  exhaled 
through  the  vibrating  pores  of  their  vaulted  roofs. 
Here,  certainly,  is  an  opera  worth  hearing.  Ordin- 
arily, the  murmur  that  escapes  from  Paris  in  the  day- 
time, is  the  city  talking  ;  in  the  night,  it  is  the  city 
breathing  ;  but  here,  it  is  the  city  singing.  Listen, 
then,  to  this  tutti  of  the  steeples — diffuse  over  the 
whole  the  murmur  of  half  a  million  of  people,  the 
everlasting  plaint  of  the  river — the  boundless  breath- 
ing of  the  wind — the  grave  and  far  quartet  of  the  four 
forests  placed  upon  the  hills,  in  the  distance,  like  so 
many  vast  organs — immersing  in  them,  as  in  a  demi- 
tint,  all  in  the  central  concert  that  would  otherwise 
be  too  rugged  or  too  sharp  ;  and  then  say  whether 
you  know  of  anything  in  the  world  more  rich,  more 
joyous,  more  golden,  more  dazzling,  than  this  tumult 
of  bells  and  chimes — this  furnace  of  music — these 
thousand  voices  of  brass,  all  singing  together  in  flutes 
of  stone  three  hundred  feet  high — this  city  which  is 
all  one  orchestra — this  symphony  as  loud  as  a 
tempest. 

VICTOR   HUGO. 
22 


338  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

THE  ORIGIN  OF  PARIS 

Sovereigns  die  and  sovereignties  :  how  all  dies,  and 
is  for  a  time  only  ;  is  a  '  Time-phantasm,  yet  reckons 
itself  real !'  The  Merovingian  Kings,  slowly  wending 
on  their  bullock-carts  through  the  streets  of  Paris, 
with  their  long  hair  flowing,  have  all  wended  slowly 
on, — into  Eternity.  Charlemagne  sleeps  at  Salzburg, 
with  truncheon  grounded  ;  only  Fable  expecting  that 
he  will  awaken.  Charles  the  Hammer,  Pepin  Bow- 
legged,  where  now  is  their  eye  of  menace,  their  voice 
of  command  ?  Rollo  and  his  shaggy  Northmen  cover 
not  the  Seine  with  ships  ;  but  have  sailed  off  on  a 
longer  voyage.  The  hair  of  Towhead  [Tete  d'etoupes) 
now  needs  no  combing  ;  Iron-cutter  {Taillejer)  cannot 
cut  a  cobweb  ;  shrill  Fredegonda,  shrill  Brunhilda 
have  had  out  their  hot  life-scold,  and  lie  silent,  their 
hot  life-frenzy  cooled.  Neither  from  that  black  Tower 
de  Nesle  descends  now  darkling  the  doomed  gallant, 
in  his  sack,  to  the  Seine  waters  ;  plunging  into  night : 
for  Dame  de  Nesle  now  cares  not  for  this  world's 
gallantry,  heeds  not  this  world's  scandal ;  Dame  de 
Nesle  is  herself  gone  into  night.  They  are  all  gone  ; 
sunk — down,  down,  with  the  tumult  they  made  ;  and 
the  rolling  and  the  tramping  of  ever  new  generations 
passes  over  them  ;  and  they  hear  it  not  any  more 
for  ever. 

And  yet  withal  has  there  not  been  realized  some- 
what ?  Consider  (to  go  no  further)  these  strong 
Stone-edifices,  and  what  they  hold  !  Mud-Town  of 
the  Borderers  {Lutetia  Parisiorum  or  Barisioriim)  has 
paved  itself,  has  spread  over  all  the  Seine  Islands, 
and  far  and  wide  on  each  bank,  and  become  City  of 
Palis,  sometimes  boasting  to  be  '  Athens  of  Europe/ 


PARIS  OF  THE  PAST  339 

and  even  '  Capital  of  the  Universe.'  Stone  towers 
frown  aloft  ;  long-lasting,  grim  with  a  thousand  years. 
Cathedrals  are  there,  and  a  creed  (or  memory  of  a 
creed)  in  them  ;  palaces,  and  a  state  and  law.  Thou 
seest  the  smoke- vapour  ;  «next inguished  breath  as  of 
a  thing  living.  Labour's  thousand  hammers  ring  on 
her  anvils  :  also  a  more  miraculous  labour  works 
noiselessly,  not  with  the  Hand,  but  with  the  Thought. 
How  have  cunning  workmen  in  all  crafts,  with  their 
cunning  head  and  right-hand,  turned  the  four 
elements  to  be  their  ministers  ;  yoking  the  winds  to 
their  sea-chariot,  making  the  very  stars  the  nautical 
time-piece ; — and  written  and  collected  a  Biblio- 
th^ue  du  Rot ;  among  whose  books  is  the  Hebrew 
Book  !  A  wondrous  race  of  creatures  :  these  have 
been  realized,  and  what  skill  is  in  these  :  call  not  the 
Past  Time,  with  all  its  confused  wretchedness,  a  lost 
one. 

THOMAS   CARLYLE. 


A  PICTURE  OF  OLD  PARIS 

The  city  hath  the  name  of  Lutetia  in  Latin.  .  .  . 
Some  say  that  it  was  of  old  called  the  City  of  Julius 
Casar,  who  built  greate  part  thereof.  It  lies  in  the 
elevation  of  the  Pole  forty  eight  degrees,  and  the 
chiefe  part  thereof,  namely,  the  Hand  or  greater  City, 
is  seated  in  fenny  ground.  For  the  River  Seyne  hath 
often  overflowed  Paris,  and  broken  down  the  bridges. 
In  the  time  of  King  Phillip  Augustus,  the  waters  rose 
to  the  statuaes  without  the  Cathedrall  Church  of 
Saint  Mary,  on  the  north  side  thereof,  as  appeares 
by  an  inscription.  .  .  .  The  City  of  old  was  all  in 
the  Hand,  and  when  it  could  not  receive  the  multitude 

22 — 2 


340  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

increased,  the  City  as  inlarged  to  both  sides  of  the 
continent,  and  first  that  part  of  the  City  called 
La  ville,  then  the  second  part  called  the  University, 
were  esteemed  suburbes,  till  they  were  joined  to  the 
City.  For  the  Kings  Court  and  the  City  still  in- 
creased with  buildings,  so  as  the  suburbes  were  greater 
than  the  City  ;  whereupon  King  Charles  the  fifth 
gave  them  the  same  privileges  which  the  City  had, 
and  compassed  them  with  wals,  whereof  the  ruines 
yet  appeare.  .  .  .  The  part  of  the  City  called  the 
Ville,  is  compassed  on  the  south  and  west  sides  with 
the  River  Seyne,  and  upon  the  east  and  north  sides 
with  wals,  rampiers,  and  ditches  in  the  forme  of 
halfe  a  circle.  The  second  part  of  the  City,  called 
the  University,  is  compassed  on  the  east  and  north 
sides  with  the  River  Seyne,  and  upon  the  south  and 
west  sides  with  wals,  which  they  write  to  have  the 
forme  of  a  hat,  save  that  the  long  suburbes  somewhat 
alter  this  forme.  .  .  . 

The  building  of  the  City  is  for  the  most  part  stately, 
of  unpolished  stone  with  the  outside  plastered,  and 
rough  cast,  and  the  houses  for  the  most  part  are  foure 
stories  high,  and  sometimes  sixe,  besides  the  roofes 
which  also  hath  glasse  windowes.  The  streetes  are 
somewhat  large,  and  among  them  the  fairest  is  that 
of  Saint  Dennis,  the  second  Saint  Honore,  the  third 
Saint  Antoine,  and  the  fourth  Saint  Marline.  And  in 
the  Hand  the  waies  to  these  streetes  are  fairest.  The 
pavement  is  of  little,  but  thicke  and  somewhat  broade 
stones.  .  .  .  The  market  places  which  are  in  the 
streetes,  are  vulgarly  called  Carresours,  as  being 
fouresquare,  and  having  passage  to  them  on  all  sides, 
and  they  are  eleven  in  number,  namely,  foure  of  the 
butchers,    (which  upon  a  sedition  raised  by  them. 


PARIS  OF  THE  PAST  341 

were  divided  into  foure  tribes)  ;  the  fifth  the  shambles 
upon  the  mount  Saint  Genovesa  ;  the  sixth  built  for 
the  poore  which  have  no  shops,  and  for  the  women 
which  sell  linen,  which  is  vulgarly  called  La  lingeria  ; 
the  seventh  of  the  brokers,  vulgarly  called  La  Lrip- 
perie  ;  the  eighth  and  chief,  is  in  the  Hand,  called 
Marshes  ;  the  eleventh  is  without  the  gate.  There  be 
fourteene  fountains,  besides  the  fountaine  of  the 
Queene,  and  that  of  the  Innocents,  built  of  stone.  .  .  . 
In  this  part  of  the  City  called  Ville,  there  be  three 
places  for  the  execution  of  justice,  .  .  .  the  Greve, 
and  that  of  the  Temple,  lying  on  the  left  hand  of  the 
gate,  called  Temple,  next  adjoining  to  this,  and  the 
third  called  Luparia,  lying  on  the  left  hand  of  the 
seventh  gate,  called  the  new  gate.  And  from  these 
three  places  the  dead  bodies  are  carried  out  of  the 
gate  of  Saint  Martine  to  be  buried  upon  Mont-falcon. 
And  give  me  leave  out  of  order  to  remember  you,  that 
Pierre  Remy,  Treasurer  and  Gouvenour  of  France, 
under  King  Charles  the  Faire,  repaired  this  Mont- 
falcon,  and  that  his  enemies  then  wrote  upon  the 
gallowes  standing  there,  tliis  rime  in  French  : 

•  Upon  this  gybet  here  you  see, 
Peter  Remy  hanged  shall  be.' 

And  that  according  to  the  same  he  was  in  the  time 
of  Phillip  of  Valois  hanged  there,  for  the  ill  adminis- 
tration of  his  office.  On  the  right  hand  as  you  come 
in  by  the  same  gate  of  Saint  Anthony,  is  a  place  for 
Tylting,  called  Tournelles.  .  .  .  The  gate  upon  the 
Seyne  towards  the  North-west,  is  called  the  new  gate, 
and  within  the  same  about  a  musket  shot  distance, 
is  the  King's  Pallace,  which  may  be  called  the  lesse 
Pallace,    in   respect   of   the   greater,    seated   in   the 


342  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

Hand,  and  this  little  Pallace  is  vulgarly  called  Le 
Louvre.  This  Pallace  hath  onely  one  courtyard,  and 
is  of  a  quadrangle  forme,  save  that  the  length  some- 
what passeth  the  bredth,  and  the  building  beeing  of 
free  stone,  seemeth  partly  old,  partly  new,  and 
towards  one  of  the  corners,  the  Kings  chambers 
(vulgarly  called  II  Pavilion)  are  more  fairely  built 
then  the  rest.  "Without  the  said  new  gate,  some  halfe 
musket  shot  distance,  is  the  Kmgs  garden  with  the 
banquetting  house  (vulgarly  called  Les  Tuilleries). 
And  now  the  civill  warres  being  ended,  the  King  began 
to  build  a  stately  gallery,  which  should  joine  together 
this  garden  and  the  foresaid  Pallace  of  the  King, 
and  I  heare  that  this  gallery  is  since  finished.  And 
the  hall  joining  this  gallery  with  the  Pallace,  doth 
passe  the  stately  building  of  the  rest  of  the  Pallace, 
being  beautified  with  many  stones  of  marble  and 
porphery.  .  .  .  On  the  left  hand,  as  you  come  into 
the  foresaid  new  gate,  lies  the  Tower  Luparia,  and 
Alengon  house,  and  Burbon  house,  and  the  Coyning 
house,  and  upon  the  right  hand  the  chiefe  Coyning 
house  lying  upon  the  River  Sejme.  To  conclude  :  of 
the  streetes  of  this  part  of  the  Citie  called  Ville,  the 
chiefe  is  S.  Antoine ;  the  second  of  the  Temple ;  the 
third  S.  Martine  ;  the  fourth  S.  Denys  ;  the  fifth 
Mont  Martre  ;  and  the  sixth  S.  Honore,  .  .  . 

The  second  part  of  the  Citie,  called  the  Universitie, 
hath  the  River  Seyne  on  the  East  and  North  sides, 
and  is  compassed  with  walles  on  the  south  and  west 
sides,  and  hath  seven  gates.  The  first  gate  of  S.  Vic- 
toire,  lies  on  the  South  side  upon  the  river,  and  hath 
his  suburb,  with  a  stately  monastery.  And  from  the 
hill  adjoyning  to  this  gate,  the  army  of  King  Henrie 
the  fourth  besieging  the  citie,  much  pressed  the  same, 


PARIS  OF  THE  PAST  343 

having  their  cannon  planted  neere  the  gallowes.  On 
the  riglit  hand  as  you  come  in,  towards  the  river,  He 
the  Tower  Nella,  the  upper,  the  Colledge  of  the 
Cardinal!,  the  Colledge  of  the  good  boyes,  the  Colledge 
and  the  Church  of  the  Bernardines,  which  Pope 
Benedict  the  twelfth  built,  and  the  Cardinall  of 
Toulouse  increased  with  a  library,  and  with  main- 
tenance of  sixteene  scholars  to  studie  Divinitie,  Also 
there  lie  the  house  of  Lorayne,  the  great  schooles  of 
foure  nations,  the  market  place  for  river  fish,  and 
the  castle,  and  the  little  bridge  which  the  Provost  of 
Paris  built,  to  restraine  the  schoUers  walking  by  night, 
in  the  time  of  King  Charles  the  fifth.  .  .  . 

The  first  bridge  towards  the  south-east,  leadcs  to 
the  street  of  Saint  Martin,  and  is  called  Pont  de  Notre 
Dame,  that  is  the  Bridge  of  Our  Lady,  and  it  was 
built  of  wood  in  the  yeere  1417,  having  threescore 
walking  paces  in  length,  and  eighteen  in  breadth,  and 
threescore  houses  of  bricke  on  each  side  built  upon  it. 
But  this  bridge  in  the  time  of  Lewis  the  twelfth  falling 
with  his  owne  weight,  was  rebuilt  upon  sixe  arches 
of  stone,  with  threescore  eight  houses  all  of  the  like 
bignesse  upon  it,  and  was  paved  with  stone,  so  that 
any  that  passed  it,  could  hardly  discerne  it  to  bee  a 
bridge.  The  second  Bridge  of  the  Broakers  (vul- 
garly called  Pout  au  Change)  is  supported  with  pillars 
of  wood.  The  third  Bridge  of  the  Millers  (vulgarly 
called  Pont  aux  ?klusniers)  hes  towards  the  north-west, 
and  leades  to  the  strecte  of  Saint  Denis.  .  .  .  The 
chiefe  streetes  of  the  Hand  are  the  very  bridges, 
and  the  waies  leading  to  the  Cathedrall  Church,  and 
to  the  greater  Pallace. 

The  Church  (or  the  little  Citie  compassed  with 
walles  in  respect  of  the  Church)  of  Saint  Denis  (the 


344  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

Protecting  Saint  of  the  French)  is  two  Httle  miles 
distant  from  Paris.  Hither  I  went  passing  by  the 
gate  of  Saint  Denis,  lying  towards  the  north-east. 
Thence  I  passed  upon  a  way  paved  with  flint,  in  a 
large  plaine  towards  the  east,  having  Mont  Falcon  on 
my  right,  .  .  .  and  my  left  hand  I  had  the  moun- 
taine  of  the  martirs  (vulgarly  called  Mont  Martre), 
and  the  next  way  from  the  citie  to  this  mountaine 
is  to  goe  out  by  the  gate  Mont  Martre.  Upon  this 
mountaine  they  say,  that  the  martyrs  Dennis, 
Areopagita,  and  Rusticus,  and  Eleutherius,  were 
beheaded  in  the  time  of  Domitian,  because  they  would 
not  sacrifice  to  Mercuric.  And  they  constantly 
beleeve  this  miracle,  that  all  these  three  martyrs 
carried  each  one  his  head  to  the  village  Catula,  which 
now  is  called  Saint  Dennis.  And  I  have  observed 
by  the  way  many  pillars  with  altars  set  up  in  the 
places  where  they  say  these  martyrs  rested  (for- 
sooth) with  their  heades  in  their  hand,  and  at  last 
fell  downe  at  Catula,  where  this  church  was  built 
over  them,  and  likewise  a  monastery,  by  King 
Dagobertus,  who  also  lyes  there  buried,  and  hath  a 
statue  in  the  cloister  of  the  monastery.  .  .  . 

Having  viewed  Paris,  I  desired  to  see  the  French 
King,  Henrie  the  Fourth,  and  his  Court,  ...  so  I 
took  my  journey  towards  the  Court,  and  went  by 
boate  upon  the  Seyne  (which  boat  daily  passeth  from 
Paris  toward  the  south)  nine  leagues  to  Corbeuile  and 
foure  leagues  to  Melune,  having  on  both  sides  pleasant 
hilles  planted  with  vines.  Then  I  went  on  foote  foure 
miles  over  a  mountaine  paved  with  flint  to  the  Kings 
pallace,  called  Fontain-bleau,  that  is,  the  Fountain 
of  faire  water. 

FYNES   MORYSON    (1617). 


PARIS  OF  THE  PAST  345 

A  BIRD'S-EYE  VIEW  OF  PARIS  IN   14S2 

What  aspect  did  [Paris]  present  when  viewed  from 
the  top  of  the  towers  of  Notre-Dame  in  14S2  ?  .  .  . 
The  spectator,  on  arriving,  out  of  breath,  upon  this 
summit,  was  first  of  all  struck  by  a  dazzling  confusion 
of  roofs,  chimneys,  streets,  bridges,  squares,  spires, 
steeples.  All  burst  upon  the  eye  at  once — the  for- 
mally-cut gable,  the  acute-angled  roofing,  the  hanging 
turret  at  the  angles  of  the  walls,  the  stone  pjTamid  of 
the  eleventh  century,  the  slate  obehsk  of  the  fifteenth  ; 
the  donjon  tower,  round  and  bare  ;  the  church  tower, 
square  and  decorated  ;  the  large  and  the  small,  the 
massive  and  the  airy.  The  gaze  was  for  some  time 
utterly  bewildered  by  this  labyrinth  ;  in  which  there 
was  nothing  but  proceeded  from  art  ; — from  the 
most  inconsiderable  carved  and  painted  house-front, 
with  external  timbers,  low  doorway,  and  stories  pro- 
jecting each  upon  each,  up  to  the  royal  Louvre  itself, 
which,  at  that  time,  had  a  colonnade  of  towers.  But 
the  following  were  the  principal  masses  that  were 
distinguishable  when  the  eye  became  steady  enough 
to  examine  this  tumultuous  assemblage  of  objects 
in  detail. 

First  of  all  .  .  .  the  city,  then,  first  presented  itself 
to  the  view,  with  its  stern  to  the  east  and  its  prow  to 
the  west.  Looking  toward  the  prow,  you  had  before 
you  an  innumerable  congregation  of  old  roofs,  with 
the  lead-covered  bolster  of  Saintc-Chapelle  rising 
above  them  broad  and  round,  like  an  elephant's  back 
with  the  tower  upon  it.  Only  that  here  the  place  of 
the  elephant's  tower  was  occupied  by  the  boldest, 
openest,  airiest,  most  notched  and  ornamented  spire 
that  ever  showed  the  sky  through  its  lacework  cone. 


346  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

Close  before  Notre-Dame,  three  streets  terminated 
in  the  parvis,  or  part  of  the  churchyard  contiguous 
to  the  grand  entrance — a  fine  square  of  old  houses. 
The  southern  side  of  this  Place  was  overhung  by  the 
furrowed  and  rugged  front  of  the  Hotel-Dieu,  and  its 
roof,  which  looks  as  if  covered  with  pimples  and 
warts.  And  then,  right  and  left,  east  and  west, 
within  that  narrow  circuit  of  the  City,  were  ranged 
the  steeples  of  its  twenty-one  churches,  of  all  dates, 
forms,  and  sizes  ;  from  the  low  and  decayed  Roman 
campanile  of  St.  Denis-du-Pas  {career  Glaiicini)  to 
the  slender  spires  of  St.  Pierre-aux-Boeufs  and 
St.  Laundry.  Behind  Notre-Dame  extended  north- 
ward the  cloister  with  its  Gothic  galleries ;  south- 
ward, the  demi-Roman  palace  of  the  bishop  ;  and 
eastward,  the  uninhabited  point  of  the  island,  called 
the  terrain,  or  ground,  by  distinction.  Amid  that 
accumulation  of  houses  the  eye  could  also  distinguish, 
by  the  high  perforated  mitres  of  stone,  which  at  that 
period,  placed  aloft  upon  the  roof  itself,  surmounted 
the  highest  range  of  palace  windows,  the  mansion 
presented  by  the  Parisians,  in  the  reign  of  Charles  VI., 
to  Juvenal  des  Ursins  ;  a  little  farther  on,  the  black, 
pitch-covered  market-sheds  of  the  Marche  Palus ; 
and  in  another  direction,  the  new  chancel  of  St.  Ger- 
main-le-Vieux,  lengthened,  in  1458,  by  an  encroach- 
ment upon  one  end  of  the  Rue-aux-Febves  ;  and 
then,  here  and  there,  were  to  be  seen  some  cross- 
way  crowded  with  people — some  pillory  erected  at 
the  comer  of  a  street — some  fine  piece  of  the  pave- 
ment of  Philip-Augustus — a  magnificent  flagging, 
furrowed  in  the  middle  to  prevent  the  horses  from 
slipping,  and  so  ill-replaced  in  the  sixteenth  century 
by  the  wretched  pebbling  called  pave  de  la  Ligue — 


-¥ 


TARIS  OF  THE  PAST  347 

some  solitar}'  backyard,  with  one  of  those  trans- 
parent staircase-turrets  which  they  used  to  build  in 
the  fifteenth  century,  one  of  which  is  still  to  be  seen 
in  the  Rue  des  Bourdonnais.  And  on  the  right  of 
the  Sainte-Chapelle,  to  the  westward,  the  Palais  de 
Justice  rested  its  group  of  towers  upon  the  water's 
brink.  The  groves  of  the  royal  gardens  which  occu- 
pied the  western  point  of  the  island,  hid  from  view 
the  islet  of  the  Passeur.  As  for  the  water  itself,  it 
was  hardly  visible  from  the  towers  of  Notre-Dame, 
on  either  side  of  the  City  ;  the  Seine  disappearing 
under  the  bridges,  and  the  bridges  under  the  houses. 
And  when  you  looked  beyond  those  bridges,  the 
roofs  upon  which  were  tinged  with  green,  having  con- 
tracted untimely  mouldiness  from  the  vapours  of  the 
water  ;  if  you  cast  your  eye  on  the  left  hand,  toward 
the  University,  the  first  edifice  that  struck  it  was  a 
large  low  cluster  of  towers,  the  Petit  Chatelet,  the 
gaping  porch  of  which  seemed  to  devour  the  ex- 
tremity of  the  Petit-Pont.  Then,  if  your  view  ranged 
along  the  shore  from  east  to  west,  from  the  Tournelle 
to  the  Tour  de  Nesle,  you  beheld  a  long  line  of  houses 
exhibiting  sculptured  beams,  coloured  window-glass, 
each  story  overhanging  that  beneath  it — an  intermin- 
able zigzag  of  ordinary  gables,  cut  at  frequent  in- 
tervals by  the  end  of  some  street,  and  now  and  then 
also  by  the  front  or  the  comer  of  some  great  stone- 
built  mansion,  which  seemed  to  stand  at  its  ease,  with 
its  courtyards  and  gardens,  its  wings  and  its  com- 
partments, amid  that  rabble  of  houses  crowding  and 
pinching  one  another,  like  a  grand  seigneur  amidst 
a  mob  of  rustics.  There  were  five  or  six  of  these 
mansions  upon  the  quay,  from  the  Logis  de  Lorraine, 
which  shared  with  the  house  of  the  Bcrnardines  the 


348  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

great  neighbouring  enclosure  of  the  Tournelle,  to  the 
Hotel  de  Nesle,  the  principal  tower  of  which  formed 
the  limit  of  Paris  on  that  side,  and  the  pointed  roofs  of 
which  were  so  situated  as  to  cut  with  their  dark 
triangles,  during  three  months  of  the  year,  the  scarlet 
disc  of  the  setting  sun. 

That  side  of  the  Seine,  however,  was  the  least 
mercantile  of  the  two  ;  there  was  more  noise  and  crowd 
of  scholars  than  of  artisans  ;  and  there  was  not,  pro- 
perly speaking,  any  quay,  except  from  the  Pont- 
Saint-Michel  to  the  Tour  de  Nesle.  The  rest  of  the 
margin  of  the  river  was  either  a  bare  strand,  as  was 
the  case  beyond  the  Bernardines,  or  a  close  range  of 
houses  with  the  water  at  their  foot,  as  between  the 
two  bridges.  There  was  a  great  clamour  of  washer- 
women along  the  water  side,  talking,  shouting,  sing- 
ing, from  morning  till  night  and  beating  away  at  their 
linen — as  they  do  at  this  day  contributing  their  full 
share  to  the  gaiety  of  Paris. 

The  University,  from  one  end  to  the  other,  pre- 
sented to  the  eye  one  dense  mass  forming  a  compact 
and  homogeneous  whole.  Those  thousand  thick-set 
angular  roofs,  nearly  all  composed  of  the  same  geo- 
metrical element,  when  seen  from  above,  looked 
almost  like  one  crystallization  of  the  same  substance. 
The  capricious  fissures  formed  by  the  streets  did  not 
cut  this  conglomeration  of  houses  into  slices  too  dis- 
proportionate. The  forty-two  colleges  were  distri- 
buted among  them  very  equally  and  were  to  be  seen 
in  every  quarter.  The  amusingly  varied  summits  of 
those  fine  buildings  were  a  product  of  the  same  de- 
scription of  art  as  the  ordinary  roofs  which  they  over- 
topped ;  being  nothing  more  than  a  multiplication, 
into  the  square  or  cube,  of  the  same  geometrical 


PARIS  OF  THE  PAST  349 

figure.  Thus  they  complicated  the  whole,  without 
confusing  it  ;  completed  without  overloading  it. 
Geometry  itself  is  one  kind  of  harmony.  Several 
fine  mansions,  too,  lifted  their  heads  magnificently 
here  and  there  above  the  picturesque  attic  stories  of 
the  left  bank  ;  as  the  Logis  de  Nevers,  the  Logis  de 
Rome,  the  Logis  de  Reims,  which  have  disappeared  ; 
and  the  Hotel  de  Cluny,  which  still  exists  for  the 
artist's  consolation,  but  the  tower  of  which  was  so 
stupidly  shortened  a  few  years  ago.  Near  the  Hotel 
de  Cluny,  that  Roman  palace,  with  fine  semicircular 
arches,  were  once  the  Baths  of  Julian.  There  were 
also  a  number  of  abbeys  of  a  beauty  more  religious,  of 
a  grandeur  more  solemn,  than  the  secular  mansions, 
but  not  less  beautiful  nor  less  grand.  Those  which 
first  caught  the  attention  were  that  of  the  Bemar- 
dines,  with  its  three  steeples  ;  that  of  Sainte-Gene- 
vieve,  the  square  tower  of  which,  still  existing,  makes 
us  so  much  regret  the  disappearance  of  the  remainder  ; 
the  Sorbonne,  half-college,  half-monastery,  so  ad- 
mirable a  nave  of  which  yet  survives ;  the  fine 
quadrilateral  cloister  of  the  Mathurins,  and,  adjacent 
to  it,  the  cloister  of  St.  Benedict  ;  the  house  of  the 
Cordeliers,  with  its  three  enormous  and  contiguous 
gables  ;  that  of  the  Augustines,  the  graceful  spire  of 
which  formed,  after  the  Tour  de  Nesle,  the  next 
lofty  projection  on  that  side  of  Paris,  commencing 
from  the  westward.  The  colleges — which  are  in  fact 
the  intermediate  link  between  the  cloister  and  the 
world — held  the  medium  in  the  architectural  series 
between  the  great  mansions  and  the  abbeys,  exhibit- 
ing a  severe  elegance,  a  sculpture  less  airy  than  that 
of  the  palaces,  an  architecture  less  stem  than  that  of 
the  convents.     Unfortunately,  scarcely  anything  re- 


350  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

mains  of  these  structures,  in  which  Gothic  art  held 
so  just  a  balance  between  richness  and  economy.  The 
churches  (and  they  were  numerous  and  splendid  in 
the  University,  and  of  every  architectural  era, 
from  the  round  arches  of  Saint- Julian  to  the  Gothic 
ones  of  Saint-Severin) — the  churches,  we  say,  rose 
above  the  whole  ;  and,  as  one  harmony  more  in  that 
harmonious  mass,  they  pierced  in  close  succession  the 
multifarious  indented  outline  of  the  roofs,  with  boldly- 
cut  spires,  with  perforated  steeples,  and  slender 
aiguilles,  or  needle  spires,  the  lines  of  which  were 
themselves  but  a  magnificent  exaggeration  of  the 
acute  angle  of  the  roofs. 

The  ground  of  the  University  was  hilly.  The 
Montague  Ste.  Genevieve,  on  the  south-east,  made 
one  grand  swell ;  and  it  was  curious  to  see,  from  the 
top  of  Notre-Dame,  that  crowd  of  narrow,  winding 
streets  (now  the  -pays  Latin),  those  clusters  of  houses 
which,  scattered  in  every  direction  from  the  summit  of 
that  eminence,  spread  themselves  in  disorder,  and 
almost  precipitously  down  its  sides,  to  the  water's 
edge  ;  looking,  some  as  if  they  were  falling,  others  as 
if  they  were  climbing  up,  and  all  as  if  hanging  to  one 
another ;  while  the  continual  motion  of  a  thousand 
dark  points  crossing  one  another  upon  the  pavement, 
gave  the  whole  an  appearance  of  life.  These  were 
the  people  in  the  streets,  beheld  thus  from  on  high 
and  at  a  distance.  .  .  . 

When  at  length,  after  long  contemplating  the  Uni- 
versity, you  turned  toward  the  right  bank  to  the 
Town,  properly  so  called,  the  character  of  the  scene 
was  suddenly  changed.  The  Town  was  not  only 
much  larger  than  the  University,  but  also  less  uniform. 
At  first  sight  it  appeared  to  be  divided  into  several 


PARIS  OF  THE  PAST  351 

masses,  singularly  distinct  from  each  other.  First  of 
all,  on  the  east,  in  that  part  of  the  Town  which  still 
takes  its  name  from  the  marais  or  marsh  in  which 
Camulogenes  entangled  Caesar,  there  was  a  collection 
of  palaces,  the  mass  of  which  extended  to  the  water- 
side. Four  great  mansions  almost  contiguous — the 
Hotels  de  Jouy,  de  Sens,  and  de  Barbeau,  and  the 
Logis  de  la  Reine — cast  upon  the  Seine  the  reflection 
of  their  slated  tops  intersected  by  slender  turrets. 
These  four  edifices  occupied  the  space  from  the  Rue 
des  Nonaindieres  to  the  abbey  of  the  Celestines,  the 
small  spire  of  which  formed  a  graceful  relief  to  their 
line  of  gables  and  battlements.  Some  sorry,  greenish- 
looking  houses  overhanging  the  water  did  not  conceal 
from  view  the  fine  angles  of  their  fronts,  their  great 
square  stone-framed  windows,  their  Gothic  porches 
loaded  with  statues,  the  boldl3''-cut  borderings  about 
their  walls,  and  all  those  charming  accidents  of  archi- 
tecture which  make  Gothic  art  seem  as  if  it  recom- 
mended its  combinations  at  every  fresh  structure. 
Behind  those  palaces  ran  in  every  direction,  in  some 
places  cloven,  palisaded,  and  embattled,  like  a  citadel, 
in  others  veiled  by  large  trees  like  a  Carthusian 
monastery,  the  vast  and  multiform  circuit  of  that 
wonderful  Hotel  de  St.  Pol,  in  which  the  French 
king  had  room  to  lodge  superbly  twenty-two  princes 
of  the  rank  of  the  dauphin  and  the  Duke  of  Burgundy, 
with  their  trains  and  their  domestics,  besides  the 
grands  seigneiu-s  or  superior  nobles,  and  the  emperor 
when  he  came  to  visit  Paris,  and  the  lions,  who  had  a 
mansion  to  themselves  within  the  royal  mansion. 
And  we  must  here  observe,  that  a  prince's  lodgings 
then  consisted  of  not  less  than  eleven  principal  apart- 
ments,   from    the    audience-room    to    the   chdiubcr 


352  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

appropriated  to  prayer  ;  besides  all  the  galleries,  baths, 
stove-rooms,  and  other  '  superfluous  places,'  with 
which  each  suite  of  apartments  was  provided  ;  besides 
the  private  gardens  of  each  one  of  the  king's  guests  ; 
besides  the  kitchens,  cellars,  pantries,  and  general 
refectories  of  the  household ;  the  basses-cours  or 
backyards,  in  which  there  were  two-and-twenty 
general  offices,  from  the  fourille  or  bakehouse  to  the 
echansonnerie  or  butlery ;  places  for  games  of  fifty 
different  kinds,  as  mall,  tennis,  riding  at  the  ring,  etc.  ; 
aviaries,  fish-ponds,  menageries,  stables,  cattle-stalls, 
libraries,  armories,  and  foundries.  Such  was,  at  that 
day,  a  palais  de  roy — a  Louvre — a  Hotel  St.  Pol ;  it 

was  a  city  within  a  city 

Now,  if  the  enimieration  of  so  many  edifices,* 
brief  as  we  have  sought  to  make  it,  has  not  shattered 
in  the  reader's  mind  the  general  image  of  old  Paris 
as  fast  as  we  have  endeavoured  to  construct  it,  we  will 
recapitulate  it  in  a  few  words.  In  the  centre  was  the 
island  of  the  City,  resembling  in  its  form  an  enormous 
tortoise,  extending  on  either  side  its  bridges  all  scaly 
with  tiles,  like  so  many  feet,  from  under  its  grey  shell 
of  roofs.  On  the  left,  the  close,  dense,  bristling,  and 
homogeneous  quadrangle  of  the  University ;  and  on 
the  right,  the  vast  semicircle  of  the  Town,  much  more 
interspersed  with  gardens  and  great  edifices.  The 
three  masses,  City,  University,  and  Town,  are  veined 
with  innumerable  streets.  Across  the  whole  runs  the 
Seine,  '  the  nursing  Seine,'  as  Father  du  Breul  calls 
it,  obstructed  with  islands,  bridges,  and  boats.  All 
around  is  an  immense  plain,  checkered  with  a  thou- 
sand different  sorts  of  cultivation,  and  strewed  with 

*  Only  a  portion  of  Victor  Hugo's  description  ^has  been 
given. — Ed, 


PARIS  OF  THE  PAST  353 

beautiful  villages  ;  on  the  left,  Issy,  Van\Tes,  Vau- 
girard,  Montrouge,  Gentilly,  with  its  round  tower 
and  its  square  tower,  etc.  ;  and  on  the  right,  twenty 
others,  from  Conflans  to  Ville-l'Eveque.  In  the 
horizon  a  circle  of  hills  formed,  as  it  were,  the  rim  of 
the  vast  basin.  And  in  the  distance,  on  the  east,  was 
Vincennes,  with  its  seven  quadrangular  towers  ;  on 
the  south,  the  Bicetre,  with  its  pointed  turrets  ;  on 
the  north,  St.  Denis  and  its  spire  ;  and  on  the  west, 
St.  Cloud  and  its  donjon.  Such  was  the  Paris  beheld 
from  the  summit  of  the  towers  of  Notre-Dame  by 
the  crows  who  lived  in  1482. 

VICTOR    HUGO. 


A  PROCESSION  TO  NOTRE  DAME 

The  Cathedrall  Church  is  dedicated  to  Our  Lady, 
which  is  nothing  so  faire  as  Our  Lady  Church  of 
Amiens  :  for  I  could  see  no  notable  matter  in  it, 
saving  the  statue  of  St.  Christopher  on  the  right 
hand  at  the  coming  in  of  the  great  gate,  which  is 
indeed  very  exquisitely  done. ...  I  will  make  relation 
of  those  pompous  ceremonies  that  were  publiquely 
solemnized  that  day  [Corpus  Christi]  in  the  streets  of 
the  city,  according  to  the  yearlic  custome  :  this  day 
the  French  men  call  Feste  de  Dieu,  that  is,  the  feast 
of  God.  And  it  was  first  introduced  by  Pope  Urban 
the  fourth,  by  the  counsell  of  Thomas  Aquinas.  .  .  . 
About  nine  of  the  clock  the  same  day  in  the  morning, 
I  went  to  the  Cathedrall  Church  which  is  dedicated 
to  Our  Lady  (as  I  have  before  written)  to  the  end  to 
observe  the  strange  ceremonies  of  that  day,  which 
for  novelty  sake,  but  not  for  any  harty  devotion  .  .  , 
I  was  contented  to  behold.  ...  No  sooner  did  I  enter 

23 


354  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

into  the  Church  but  a  great  company  of  Clergy  men 
came  forth  singing,  and  so  continued  all  the  time  of 
the  procession,   till  they  returned  unto  the  Church 
againe,   some   by  couples,    and   some  single.     They 
walked  partly  in  coapes,  whereof  some  were  exceed- 
ing rich,  being  (in  my  estimation)  worth  at  least  a 
hundred  markes  a  peece  ;  and  partly  in  surplices. 
Also  in  the  same  traine  there  were  many  couples  of 
little  singing  choristers,   many  of  them  not   above 
eight  or  nine  yeares  old,  and  few  above  a  dozen  : 
which  prety  innocent  punies  were  so  egregiously  de- 
formed by  those  that  had  authority  over  them,  that 
they  could  not  choose  but  move  great  commiseration 
in  an}'  relenting  spectator.  .  .  .     The  last  man  of  the 
whole  traine  was  the  Bishop  of  Paris,  a  proper  and 
comely  man  as  any  I  saw  in  all  the  city,  of  some  five 
and  thirty  yeares  old.     He  walked  not  sub  dio,  that 
is,  under  the  open  aire,  as  the  rest  did.     But  he  had 
a  rich  canopy  carried  over  him,  supported  with  many 
little   pillers   on   both   sides.     This   did   the   Priests 
carry :  he  himself  was  that  day  in  his  sumptuous 
Pont'ificalities,  wearing  religious  ornaments  of  great 
price,  like  a  second  Aaron,  with  his  Episcopall  staffe 
in  his  hand,  bending  round  at  the  toppe,  called  by 
us  English  men  a  Croisier,  and  his  Miter  on  his  head  of 
cloth  of  silver,  with  two  long  labels  hanging  downe 
behind  his  neck.     As  for  the  streets  of  Paris  they  were 
more  sumptuously  adorned  that  day  then  any  other 
day  of  the  whole  yeare,  every  street  of  speciall  note 
being  on  both  sides  thereof,  from  the  prentices  of 
their  houses  to  the  lower  end  of  the  wall  hanged  with 
rich  cloth  of  arras,   and  the  costliest  tapestry  that 
they  could  provide.    The  shewes  of  Our  Lady  street 
being  so  hyperbohcal  in  pomp  that  day,   that  it 


PARIS  OF  THE  PAST  355 

exceeded  the  rest  by  many  degrees.  And  for  the 
greater  addition  of  ornament  to  this  feast  of  God,  they 
garnished  many  of  the  streets  with  as  rich  cupboords 
of  plate  as  ever  I  saw  in  all  my  life.  For  they  ex- 
posed upon  their  publique  tables  exceeding  costly 
goblets,  and  what  not  tending  to  pompe,  that  is 
called  by  the  name  of  plate.  Upon  the  middest  of 
their  tables  stood  their  golden  Crucifixes,  with  divers 
other  gorgeous  Images.  Likewise  in  many  places 
of  the  city  I  observed  hard  by  those  cupboords  of 
plate,  certayne  artihciall  rocks,  most  curiously  con- 
trived by  the  very  quintessence  of  arte,  with  fine 
water  spowting  out.  .  .  .  Wherefore  the  foresaid 
sacred  company,  perambulating  about  some  of  the 
principall  streets  of  Paris,  especially  Our  Lady  street, 
were  entertained  with  most  divine  honours.  For 
whereas  the  Bishop  carried  the  Sacrament,  even  his 
consecrated  wafer  cake,  betwixt  the  Images  of  the 
two  golden  Angels,  whensoever  he  passed  by  any 
company,  all  the  spectators  prostrated  themselves 
most  humbly  upon  their  knees,  and  elevated  their 
handes  with  all  possible  reverence  and  religious  be- 
haviour. .  .  .  Moreover,  the  same  day  after  dinner  I 
saw  the  like  shew  performed  by  the  Clergy  in  the 
holy  procession  in  the  morning.  Qucene  Margarite 
the  Kings  divorced  wife  being -carried  by  men  in  the 
open  streets  under  a  stately  canopy  :  and  about  foure 
of  the  clocke,  they  made  a  period  of  that  solemnity, 
all  the  Priests  returning  with  their  Sacrament  to 
Our  Lady  Church,  where  they  concluded  that  dayes 
ceremonies  with  their  Vespers. 

THOMAS    COKYAT    (1611). 


23—3 


356  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

THE  PARIS  OF  JOHN  EVELYN 

1643.  24  December.  I  went  to  see  the  Isle  encom- 
passed by  the  Seine  &  the  Oyse.  The  City  is  divided 
into  3  parts,  whereof  the  Toune  is  greatest.  The  City 
lies  between  it  and  the  University,  in  form  of  an  island. 
Over  the  Seine  is  a  stately  bridge  called  Pont  Neuf, 
begun  by  Hen.  3.  in  1578,  finished  by  Hen.  4.  his 
successor.  It  is  all  of  hewn  free  stone  found  under 
the  streets,  but  more  plentifully  at  Mont-Martyre, 
and  consists  of  12  arches,  in  the  midst  of  which  ends 
the  poynt  of  an  island,  on  which  are  built  handsome 
artificers  houses.  There  is  one  large  passage  for 
coaches,  and  2  for  foot  passengers  3  or  4  feet  higher, 
and  of  convenient  breadth  for  8  or  10  to  go  abreast. 
On  the  middle  of  this  stately  bridge  on  one  side 
stands  that  famous  statue  of  Hen.  the  Great  on  horse- 
back, exceeding  the  natural  proportion  by  much  ; 
and  on  the  4  faces  of  a  pedestal,  (which  is  compos'd 
of  various  sorts  of  polish'd  marble  and  rich  mouldings,) 
inscriptions  of  his  victories  and  most  signal  actions 
are  engraven  in  brasse.  The  statue  and  horse  are  of 
copper,  the  worke  of  the  greate  John  di  Bologna,  and 
sent  from  Florence  by  Ferdinand  the  First,  and 
Cosmo  the  2d,  unkle  &  cousin  to  Mary  di  Medices,  the 
wife  of  this  K.  Henry.  It  is  inclos'd  with  a  strong 
and  beautifull  grate  of  yron,  about  which  there  are 
allways  mountebancs  shewing  their  feates  to  idle 
passengers.  From  hence  is  a  rare  prospect  towards 
the  Louver  and  suburbs  of  St.  Germaines,  the  Isle  of 
du  Palais,  and  Notre  Dame.  At  the  foote  of  this 
bridge  is  a  water  house,  on  the  front  whereof,  at  a 
great  height,  is  the  story  of  our  Saviour  and  the 
Woman  of  Samaria  powring  water  out  of  a  bucket. 


PARIS  OF  THE  PAST  357 

Above  is  a  very  rare  dyal  of  severall  motions,  with  a 
chime,  &c.  The  water  is  convey'd  by  huge  wheeles, 
pumps,  and  other  engines,  from  the  river  beneath. 
The  confluence  of  the  people  and  multitude  of  coaches 
passing  every  moment  over  the  bridge,  to  a  new  spec- 
tator is  an  agreeable  diversion.  Other  bridges  there 
are,  as  of  Notre  Dame  ;  and  the  Pont  au  Change,  &c. 
fairly  built,  with  houses  of  stone  which  are  laid  over 
this  river  :  only  the  Pont  St.  Anne,  landing  the 
suburbs  of  St.  Germaine  at  the  Thuilleries,  is  built  of 
wood,  having  likewise  a  water-house  in  the  middst 
of  it,  and  a  statue  of  Xeptune  casting  water  out  of  a 
whale's  mouth,  of  lead,  but  much  inferior  to  the 
Samaritane. 

The  University  lyes  S.W.  on  higher  ground,  con- 
tiguous to,  but  the  lesser  part  of  Paris.  They 
reckon  no  less  than  65  Colleges,  but  they  in  nothing 
approach  ours  at  Oxford  for  state  and  order.  The 
booksellers  dwell  within  the  University.  The  Scholes 
(of  which  more  hereafter)  are  very  regular. 

The  suburbs  are  those  of  St.  Denys,  Honore,  St. 
Marcel,  Jaques,  St.  Michel,  St.  Victoire,  and  St.  Ger- 
maines,  which  last  is  the  largest,  and  where  the 
nobility  and  persons  of  the  best  quality  are  seated  ; 
and  truely  Paris,  comprehending  the  suburbs,  is,  for 
the  material  the  houses  are  built  with,  and  many 
noble  and  magnificent  piles,  one  of  the  most  gallant 
Cittyes  in  the  world  ;  large  in  circuit,  of  a  round 
forme,  very  populous,  but  situated  in  a  botome, 
environ'd  with  gentle  declivities,  rendering  some 
places  very  dirty  ;  ,  .  .  yet  it  is  paved  with  a  kind 
of  free-stone,  of  neere  a  foote  square,  which  renders 
it  more  easy  to  walk  on  than  our  pebles  in  London. 

On  Christmas  eve  I  went  to  see  the  Cathedrall  of 


358  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

Notre  Dame,  erected  by  Philip  Augustus,  but  begun 
by  K.  Robert,  son  of  Hugh  Capet.  It  consists  of  a 
Gotiq  fabriq,  supported  by  120  pillars,  which  make 
2  ailes  in  the  Church  round  about  the  quire, 
without  comprehending  the  Cha.pells,  being  174 
paces  long,  60  wide,  and  100  high.  The  Quire  is 
enclos'd  with  stone  worke  graven  with  the  sacred 
history,  and  containes  45  Chapells  cancell'd  with  iron. 
At  the  front  of  the  chiefe  entrance  are  statues  in 
relievo  of  the  Kings,  28  in  number,  from  Childebert 
to  the  founder,  Philip  ;  and  above  them  are  two  high 
square  Towers,  and  another  of  a  smaller  size,  bearing 
a  Spire  in  the  middle,  where  the  body  of  the  Church 
formes  a  Crosse.  The  greate  Tow'r  is  ascended  by 
389  steps,  having  12  gallerys  from  one  to  the  other. 
They  greatly  reverence  the  Crucifix  over  the  skreene 
of  the  Quire,  with  an  image  of  the  B.  Virgin.  There 
are  some  good  modern  paintings  hanging  on  the 
pillars  :  the  most  conspicuous  statue  is  the  huge 
Colosse  of  St.  Christopher,  with  divers  other  figures 
of  men,  houses,  prospects,  &  rocks,  about  this 
gygantiq  piece,  being  of  one  stone,  and  more  re- 
markable for  its  bulke  than  any  other  perfection. 
This  is  the  prime  Church  of  France  for  dignity, 
having  Archdeacons,  Vicars,  Canons,  Priests,  and 
Chaplaines  in  good  store,  to  the  number  of  127.  It 
is  also  the  Palace  of  the  Archbishop.  The  young 
King  (Louis  XIV.)  was  there  with  a  great  and 
martial  guard,  who  enter'd  the  Nave  of  the  Church 
with  drums  and  fifes,  at  the  ceasing  of  which  I  was 
entertain'd  with  the  church  musiq. 

1644.  4  January.  I  pass'd  this  day  with  one  Mr. 
Jo.  Wall,  an  Irish  gentleman,  v/ho  had  been  a  Frier 
in  Spaine,  and  afterv/ards  a  Reader  in  St.  Isodors 


PARIS  OF  THE  PAST  359 

Chayre  at  Rome.  ...  He  would  needes  perswade  me 
to  goe  with  him  this  morning  to  the  Jesuites  Colledge, 
to  witness  his  polemical  talent.  We  found  the 
Fathers  at  the  Rue  St.  Anthoine,  where  one  of  them 
shew'd  us  that  noble  fabriq,  which  for  its  cupola, 
pavings,  incrustations  of  marble,  the  pulpit,  altars 
(especially  the  high  altar),  organ,  lavalorium,  &c. 
but,  above  all,  the  richly  carv'd  and  incomparable 
front,  I  esteeme  to  be  one  of  the  most  perfect  pieces 
of  architecture  in  Europ,  emulating  even  some  of  the 
greatest  now  at  Rome  itself  ;  but  this  not  being  what 
our  Frier  sought,  he  led  us  into  the  adjoyning  Con- 
vent, where  having  shew'd  us  the  Library,  they  began 
a  very  hot  dispute  on  some  poynts  of  Divinity,  which 
our  Cavalier  contested  onely  to  shew  his  pride,  and 
to  that  indiscreete  height  that  the  Jesuits  would 
hardly  bring  us  to  our  coach,  they  being  put  beside 
all  patience.  The  next  day  we  went  into  the  Univer- 
sity, and  into  the  College  of  Navarre,  which  is  a 
spacious  well-built  quadrangle,  having  a  very  noble 
Library. 

Thence  to  the  Sorbonne,  an  antient  fabriq  built 
by  one  Robert  de  Sorbonne,  whose  name  it  retains, 
but  the  restouration  which  the  late  Cardinal  de 
Richlieu  has  made  to  it  renders  it  one  of  the  most 
excellent  moderne  buildings  ;  the  sumptuous  Church, 
of  admirable  architecture,  is  far  superior  to  the  rest. 
The  cupola,  portico,  and  whole  designe  of  the  Church 
is  very  magnihcent. 

We  went  into  some  of  the  Scholcs,  and  in  that  of 
Divinity  we  found  a  grave  Doctor  in  his  chaire,  with 
a  multitude  of  auditors,  who  all  write  as  he  dictates  ; 
and  this  they  call  a  Course.  After  we  had  sate  a 
little,  our  Cavalier  started  up,   and  rudely  enough 


360  THE  CHARM  OF  PARTS 

began  to  dispute  with  the  Doctor  ;  at  which,  and 
especially  as  he  was  clad  in  the  Spanish  habit,  which 
in  Paris  is  the  greatest  bugbare  imaginable,  the 
Scholars  and  Doctor  fell  into  such  a  fit  of  laughter 
that  nobody  could  be  heard  speake  for  a  while  ;  but 
silence  being  obtain'd,  he  began  to  speake  Latine, 
and  make  his  apology  in  so  good  a  style,  that  their 
derision  was  turn'd  to  admiration,  &  beginning  to 
argue,  he  so  baffled  the  Professor,  that  with  universal 
applause  they  all  rose  up  and  did  him  greate  honors, 
waiting  on  us  to  the  very  streete  and  our  coach, 
testefying  greate  satisfaction. 

3  Feb.  I  went  to  the  Exchange.  The  late  addi- 
tion to  the  building  is  very  noble,  but  the  gallerys 
where  they  sell  their  petty  merchandize  are  nothing 
so  stately  as  ours  at  London,  no  more  than  the 
place  where  they  walke  below,  being  onely  a  low 
vault. 

The  Palais,  as  they  call  the  upper  part,  was  built 
in  the  time  of  Philip  the  Faire,  noble  and  spacious. 
The  greate  Hall  annex'd  to  it  is  arched  with  stone, 
having  a  range  of  pillars  in  the  middle,  round  which 
and  at  the  sides  are  shops  of  all  kinds,  especially 
Booksellers.  One  side  is  full  of  pewfes  for  the  Clearkes 
of  the  Advocates,  who  swarme  here  (as  ours  at  West- 
minster). At  one  of  the  ends  stands  an  altar,  at 
which  Masse  is  said  daily.  Within  are  several 
Chambers,  Courts,  Treasuries,  &c.  Above  that  is 
the  most  rich  and  glorious  Salle  d'Audience,  the 
Chamber  of  St.  Lewis,  and  other  superior  Courts 
where  the  Parliament  sits,  richly  guilt  on  embossed 
carvings  &  fretts,  and  exceedingly  beautified. 

Within  the  place  where  they  sell  their  wares  is 
another  narrower  gallery  full  of  shopps  and  toys,  &c. 


PARIS  OF  THE  PAST  361 

which  lookes  downe  into  the  Prison  yard.  Descend- 
ing by  a  large  payre  of  stayres,  we  passed  by  St. 
Chapelle,  which  is  a  Church  built  by  St.  Lewis,  1242, 
after  the  Gotiq  manner  ;  it  stands  on  another  Church 
which  is  under  it,  sustain'd  by  pillars  at  the  sides, 
which  seeme  so  weak  as  to  appear  extraordinary  in 
the  artist.  This  Chapell  is  most  famous  for  its 
Relicques,  having,  as  they  pretend,  almost  the  intyre 
Crowne  of  Thornes  ;  the  Achat  Patine,  rarely  sculp- 
tur'd,  judg'd  one  of  the  largest  &  best  in  Europ. 
There  was  now  a  beautifull  Spire  erecting.  The 
Court  below  is  very  spacious,  capable  of  holding 
many  coaches,  and  surrounded  with  shopps,  especi- 
ally Engravers,  Goldsmiths,  and  Watchmakers.  In 
it  is  a  fayre  Fountaine  &  Portico.  The  Isle  du  Palais 
consists  of  a  triangular  brick  building,  whereof  one 
side,  looking  to  the  river,  is  inhabited  by  Goldsmiths. 
Within  the  court  are  private  dwellings.  The  front 
looking  on  the  greate  bridge  is  possessed  by  Mounte- 
banks, Operators,  and  Puppetplayers.  On  the  other 
part  is  the  every  day's  market  for  all  sorts  of  pro- 
visions, especially  bread,  hearbs,  flowers,  orange- 
trees,  choyce  shrubbs  ;  here  is  a  shop  called  Noah's 
Arke,  where  are  sold  all  curiosities  naturall  or  arti- 
ficial, Indian  or  European,  for  luxury  or  use,  as 
cabinets,  shells,  ivory,  porselan,  dried  fishes,  insects, 
birds,  pictures,  and  a  thousand  exotic  extravagances. 
Passing  hence  we  viewed  the  Port  Dauphine,  an  arch 
of  excellent  workmanship  ;  the  street,  bearing  the 
same  name,  is  ample  and  straite. 

4  Feb.  I  went  to  see  the  Marais  dc  Temple, 
where  is  a  noble  Church  and  Palace,  heretofore 
dedicated  to  the  Knights  Templars,  now  converted 
to  a  Piazza,  not  much  unlike  ours  at  Covent  Garden, 


362  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

but  larger  and  not  so  pleasant,  tho'  built  all  about 
with  divers  considerable  palaces. 

The  Church  of  St.  Genevieve  is  a  place  of  greate 
devotion,  dedicated  to  another  of  their  Amazons  sayd 
to  have  deliver'd  the  Citty  from  the  English,  for  which 
she  is  esteem'd  the  tutelary  Saint  of  Paris.  It  stands 
on  a  steepe  eminence,  having  a  very  high  spire,  and 
is  govern'd  by  Canons  Regular. 

At  the  Palais  Royale  Hen.  IV.  built  a  faire  quad- 
rangle of  stately  Palaces,  arched  underneath.  In 
the  middle  of  a  spacious  area  stands  on  a  noble 
pedestal,  a  brazen  Statue  of  Lewis  XIII.  which  tho' 
made  in  imitation  of  that  in  the  Roman  Capitol,  is 
nothing  so  much  esteem'd  as  that  on  the  Pont  Neuf. 

The  Hospital  of  the  Quinz-Vingts  in  Rue  St. 
Honore  is  an  excellent  foundation  ;  but  above  all  is 
the  Hotel  Dieu  for  men  and  women,  neare  Notre 
Dame,  a  princely,  pious,  and  expensive  structure. 
That  of  the  Charite  gave  me  great  satisfaction  in 
seeing  how  decently  and  Christianly  the  sick  people 
are  attended,  even  to  delicacy.  I  have  seen  them 
served  by  noble  persons,  men  and  women.  They 
have  also  gardens,  walks,  and  fountaines.  .  .  . 

8  Feb.  I  took  coach  and  went  to  see  the  famous 
Jardine  Royale,  which  is  an  enclosure  walled  in,  con- 
sisting of  all  varieties  of  ground  for  planting  and 
culture  of  medical  simples.  It  is  well  chosen,  having 
in  it  hills,  meadows,  wood  and  upland,  naturall  and 
artificial,  and  is  richly  star'd  with  exotic  plants.  In 
the  middle  of  the  Parterre  is  a  faire  fountaine.  There 
is  a  very  fine  house,  chapel,  laboratory,  orangery,  & 
other  accommodations  for  the  President,  who  is 
aliways  one  of  the  King's  cheife  Physitians, 

From  hence  we  went   to  the  other  side  of  the 


PARIS  OF  THE  PAST  363 

towne,  and  to  some  distance  from  it,  to  the  Bois 
de  Vinccnnes,  going  by  the  Bastille,  which  is  the 
Fortresse  Tower  and  Magazine  of  this  great  Citty. 
It  is  very  spacious  within,  and  there  the  Grand 
Master  of  the  Artillery  has  his  house,  with  faire 
gardens  and  walks. 

The  Bois  de  Vinccnnes  has  in  it  a  square  and  noble 
Castle,  wdth  magnificent  apartments,  fit  for  a  Royal 
Court,  not  forgetting  the  Chapell.  It  is  the  chiefe 
Prison  for  persons  of  quality.  About  it  there  is  a 
parke  walled  in,  full  of  deere,  and  in  one  part  is  a 
grove  of  goodly  pine-trees. 

The  next  day  I  went  to  see  the  Louvre  with  more 
attention,  its  severall  Courts  and  Pavilions.  One  of 
the  quadrangles,  begun  by  Hen.  IV.  and  finish'd  by 
his  son  and  grandson,  is  a  superb  but  mix'd  structure. 
The  cornices,  mouldings,  &  compartments,  with  the 
insertion  of  severall  colour'd  marbles,  have  been  of 
great  expence. 

We  went  through  the  long  gallery,  pav'd  with  white 
&  black  marble,  richly  fretted  and  paynted  a  fresca. 
The  front  looking  to  the  river,  tho'  of  rare  worke  for 
the  carving,  yet  wants  the  magnificence  which  a 
plainer  and  truer  designe  would  have  contributed 
to  it. 

In  the  Cour  aux  Thuilleries  is  a  princely  fabriq  ; 
the  winding  geometrical  stone  stayres,  with  a  cupola, 
I  take  to  be  as  bold  and  noble  a  piece  of  architecture 
as  any  in  Europ  of  the  kind.  To  this  is  a  Corps  de 
Lo'^is,  worthy  of  so  greatc  a  Prince.  Under  these 
buildings,  thro'  a  garden  in  which  is  an  ample  foun- 
taine,  was  the  King's  printing-house,  and  that 
famous  letter  so  much  esteem'd.  Here  I  bought 
divers  of  the  classiq  authors,  poets  and  others. 


364  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

We  returned  through  another  gallery,  larger,  but 
not  so  long,  where  hung  the  pictures  of  all  the  Kings 
and  Queenes  and  prime  Nobility  of  France. 

Descending  hence,  we  went  into  a  lower  very  large 
room,  call'd  the  Salle  des  Antiques,  which  is  a 
vaulted  Cimelia,  destin'd  for  statues  only,  amongst 
which  stands  the  so  celebrated  Diana  of  the.  Ephesians, 
said  to  be  the  same  which  utter'd  oracles  in  that 
temple.  There  is  a  huge  globe  suspended  by  chaynes. 
The  pavings,  inlayings,  and  incrustations  of  this 
Hall  are  very  rich. 

In  another  more  privat  garden  towards  the 
Queene's  apartment  is  a  walke  or  cloyster  under 
arches,  whose  terrace  is  paved  with  stones  of  a 
greate  breadth  ;  it  looks  towards  the  river,  and  has 
a  pleasant  aviary,  fountaine,  stately  cypresses,  &c. 
On  the  river  are  scene  a  prodigious  number  of  barges 
and  boates  of  great  length,  full  of  hay,  corne,  wood, 
wine,  &c.  Under  the  long  gallery  dwell  goldsmiths, 
paynters,  statuaries,  and  architects,  who  being  the 
most  famous  for  their  art  in  Christendom,  have 
stipends  allowed  them  by  the  King.  We  went  into 
that  of  Monsieur  Saracin,  who  was  moulding  for  an 
image  of  a  Madonna  to  be  cast  in  gold,  of  a  greate 
size,  to  be  sent  by  the  Queene  Regent  to  Lauretto, 
as  an  offering  for  the  birth  of  the  Dauphine,  now 
the  young  King  of  France. 

I  finish'd  this  day  with  a  walke  in  the  greate 
garden  of  the  Thuilleries,  which  is  rarely  contrived 
for  privacy,  shade,  or  company,  by  groves,  planta- 
tions of  tall  trees,  especially  that  in  the  middle 
being  of  elmes,  another  of  mulberys.  There  is  a 
labyrinth  of  cypresse,  noble  hedges  of  pomegranates, 
fountaines,  fishponds,  and  an  aviary.     There  is  an 


PARIS  OF  THE  PAST  365 

artificial  echo,  redoubling  the  words  distinctly,  and 
it  is  never  without  some  faire  nymph  singing  to  it. 
Standmg  at  one  of  the  focus's,  which  is  under  a  tree, 
or  little  cabinet  of  hedges,  the  voice  seems  to  descend 
from  the  clouds  ;  at  another  as  if  it  was  underground. 
This  being  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  we  were  let 
into  another,  which  being  kept  with  all  imaginable 
accuratenesse  as  to  the  orangery,  precious  shrubes, 
and  rare  fruitcs,  seem'd  a  paradise.  From  a  terrace 
in  this  place  we  saw  so  many  coaches,  as  one  would 
hardly  think  could  be  maintained  in  the  whole  Citty, 
going,  late  as  it  was  in  the  year,  towards  the  Course, 
which  is  a  place  adjoyning,  of  neere  an  English  mile 
long,  planted  with  4  rows  of  trees,  making  a  large 
circle  in  the  middle.  This  Course  is  walled  about, 
neere  breast  high,  with  squar'd  freestone,  and  has  a 
stately  arch  at  the  entrance,  with  sculpture  and 
statues  about  it,  built  by  Mary  di  Medices.  Here  it 
is  that  the  gallants  and  ladys  of  the  Court  take  the 
ayre  and  divert  themselves,  as  with  us  in  Hide  Park, 
the  circle  being  capable  of  containing  an  hundred 
coaches  to  turne  commodiously,  and  the  larger  of 
the  plantations  for  5  or  6  coaches  a  brest.  .  .  . 

I  April.  I  went  to  see  more  exactly  the  roomes 
of  the  fine  Palace  of  Luxemburge,  in  the  Fauxbourg 
St.  Germains,  built  by  Mary  de  Medices,  and  I  think 
one  of  the  most  noble,  entire,  and  finish'd  piles,  that 
is  to  be  seen,  taking  it  with  the  garden  and  all  its 
accomplishments.  The  gallery  is  of  the  painting  of 
Rubens,  being  the  history  of  the  Foundresses  life, 
rarely  designed  ;  at  the  end  of  it  is  the  Duke  of 
Orleans's  Library,  well  furnished  with  excellent  bookes, 
all  bound  in  maroquin  and  gilded,  the  valans  of  the 
shelves  being  of  greene  velvet  fring'd  with  gold.  .  .  . 


366  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

The  Court  below  is  formed  into  a  square  by  a  corridor, 
having  over  the  chiefe  entrance  a  stately  cupola, 
covered  with  stone  ;  the  rest  is  cloistered  and  arch'd 
on  pillasters  of  rustiq  worke.  The  tarrace  ascending 
before  the  front  paved  \\dth  white  &  black  marble,  is 
balustred  with  white  marble,  exquisitely  polish'd. 
.  .  .  The  gardens  are  neere  an  English  mile  in  com- 
passe,  enclos'd  with  a  stately  wall,  and  in  a  good  ayre. 
The  parterre  is  indeed  of  box,  but  so  rarely  design'd 
and  accurately  kept  cut,  that  the  embroidery  makes 
a  wonderful  effect  to  the  lodgings  which  front  it. 
'Tis  divided  into  4  squares,  &  as  many  circular  knots, 
having  in  the  center  a  noble  basin  of  marble  neere 
30  feet  diameter  (as  I  remember),  in  which  a  triton 
of  brasse  holds  a  dolphin  that  casts  a  girandola  of 
water  neere  30  foote  high,  playing  perpetually,  the 
water  being  convey'd  from  Arceuil  by  an  aqueduct 
of  stone,  built  after  the  old  Roman  magnificence. 
About  this  ample  parterre,  the  spacious  walkes  &  all 
included,  runs  a  border  of  freestone,  adorned  with 
pedestalls  for  potts  and  statues,  and  part  of  it  neere 
the  stepps  of  the  terrace,  with  a  raile  and  baluster  of 
pure  white  marble.  .  .  . 

Next  the  streete  side,  and  more  contiguous  to  the 
house,  are  knotts  in  trayle  or  grasse  worke,  where 
likewise  runs  a  fountaine.  Towards  the  grotto  and 
stables,  within  a  wall,  is  a  garden  of  choyce  flowers, 
in  which  the  Duke  spends  many  thousand  pistoles. 
In  sum,  nothing  is  wanting  to  render  this  palace  and 
gardens  perfectly  beautifull  &  magnificent ;  nor  is  it 
one  of  the  least  diversions  to  see  the  number  of  persons 
of  quality,  citizens  and  strangers,  who  frequent  it, 
and  to  whom  all  accesse  is  freely  permitted,  so  that 
you  shall   see  some   walkes   &   retirements    full   of 


PARIS  OF  THE  PAST  367 

gallants  and  ladys  ;  in  others  melancholy  fryers  ;  in 
others  studious  scholars ;  in  others  jolly  citizens, 
some  sitting  or  lying  on  the  grasse,  others  running, 
jumping,  some  playing  at  bowles  and  ball,  others 
dancing  and  singing ;  and  all  this  without  the  least  dis- 
turbance, by  reason  of  the  largeness  of  the  place.  .  .  . 
I  went  next  to  view  Paris  from  the  top  of  St. 
Jacques  steeple,  esteem'd  the  highest  in  the  to\vne, 
from  whence  I  had  a  full  view  of  the  whole  Citty  and 
suburbs,  both  which,  as  I  judge,  are  not  so  large  as 
London  :  though  the  dissimilitude  of  their  formes 
and  situations,  this  round,  London  long,  renderes  it 
difficult  to  determine  ;  but  there  is  no  comparison 
between  the  buildings,  palaces,  and  materials,  this  being 
entirely  of  stone  and  more  sumptuous,  tho'  I  esteeme 
our  piazza's  to  exceed  their's.  ^^^^  evelyn. 

SEVENTEEXTH-CENTURY  PARIS 

No  city  has  been  so  fortunate  in  its  special  historians 
as  Paris.  It  is  a  consequence  of  the  intense  love 
which  Frenchmen  have  towards  their  great  capital. 
.  .  .  The  inner  man  of  the  wandering  Parisian  is 
ever  clinging  to  the  Quais  and  the  Boulevards.  .  .  . 
Paris  is  emi^hatically  the  centre  of  light,  intelligence, 
society,  and  refined  hfe  ;  and  its  historian  begins  to 
breathe  his  proper  atmosphere  as  soon  as  he  has  issued 
from  the  gloomy  and  stifling  air  of  the  middle  ages. 
Then  the  great  city  began  to  expand  her  arms,  and 
embrace  the  spacious  demesnes,  royal  and  noble, 
which  had  hitherto  lain  idle  without  her  gates. 
Then  the  edifices  erected  within  those  demesnes 
began  to  change  their  character ;  and  instead  of 
her    castles    of    the    olden    time  —  the    heaviest    of 


368  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

all  castles,  with  their  cylindrical  towers  and  extin- 
guisher roofs — arose  all  the  diversified  splendour  of 
the  Renaissance.  .  .  .  He  who  would  obtain  a  view 
of  the  spot  which  may  almost  be  called  the  cradle  of 
civilization,  if  he  would  at  a  single  glance  realize,  to 
a  certain  extent,  the  external  world  of  that  delightful 
era  of  chivalry  and  literature,  wit,  buffoonery,  ex- 
travagance, and  imagination,  which  is  portrayed  in 
the  French  memoirs  of  the  seventeenth  century,  he 
should  travel  in  a  direction  in  which,  probably,  not 
one  in  a  thousand  of  our  countrymen  in  Paris  ever 
bends  his  steps,  and,  leaving  the  small  bustle  of  the 
Rue  Saint  Antoine  turn  into  the  Place  Royale.  The 
aspect  of  its  solemn  old  houses — so  stately  and 
gentlemanlike,  in  their  decay  so  well  preserved  in 
their  exterior,  their  silent  rows  so  strangely  contrasting 
with  the  busy  region  in  their  vicinity — will  strike 
forcibly  the  imagination,  even  of  one  unacquainted 
with  their  history.  They  seem  like  palaces  aban- 
doned for  a  season,  not  tenantless,  waiting  for  the 
return  of  their  noble  and  courtly  owners,  gone  on  a 
far  journey.  But  much  more  powerfully  will  it 
affect  the  visitor,  if  he  knows  even  superficially  the 
history  of  the  spot  ;  and  is  aware  that  the  first  exist- 
tence  of  the  fashionable  city  life — of  society  such  as 
he  sees  it  among  the  better  classes  of  any  capital  in 
Europe — may  be  traced  back  to  these  now  deserted 
habitations.  .  .  .  No  Versailles  had  as  yet  arisen  to 
eclipse  the  capital.  The  aristocracy  of  the  nation 
were  collected  in  quarters  almost  as  narrow  as  those 
in  which  the  company  at  a  large  watering-place  now 
meet  each  other.  .  .  .  The  chief  promenade  of  the 
afternoon  was  the  Cours  la  Reine,  on  the  south  side 
of  the  Tuilleries  garden,  from  which  the  mechanical 


PARIS  OF  THE  PAST  369 

public  was  excluded.  Here  Marie  de  Medicis  paraded 
in  her  globe-shaped  Coche :  and  Bassompierre  ex- 
hibited the  first  carriage  with  glass  windows.  When 
'  the  great  Mademoiselle  '  was  asked  what  she  had 
regretted  most  during  her  political  banishment  from 
Paris,  she  answered,  '  The  masquerades,  the  fair  of 
St.  Germain,  and  the  Cours.'  ...  In  1660  the  king 
and  court  began  to  remove,  first  to  Fontainebleau, 
afterwards  to  St.  Germain's,  and  ultimately  settled 
down  in  the  stateliness  of  Versailles.  This  great 
change  in  the  habits  of  the  higher  classes  was  very 
injurious  to  Paris  considered  as  a  centre  of  society. 
The  Marais,  or  neighbourhood  of  the  Place  Royale, 
continued  long  to  be  the  fashionable  quarter.  The 
quays  of  the  left  bank,  whose  architectural  embellish- 
ment dates  chiefly  from  this  reign,  became  popular 
as  promenades  :  the  world  of  fashion,  for  a  few  years, 
used  to  parade  up  and  down  the  broiling  pavement  of 
the  Quais  des  Theatins  and  Malaquais.  Here  Moliere 
lived  ;  and  here,  for  a  short  time,  his  troop  was  estab- 
lished. ...  In  the  Rue  des  Fosses  St.  Germain, 
now  Rue  de  I'Ancienne  Comedie,  Procopio  the 
Sicilian  established  his  cafe,  the  grandfather  of  all 
cafes,  and  the  ancient  rendezvous  of  the  literary  and 
theatrical  world.  .  .  . 

We  have  been  dreaming  of  old  Paris,  in  the  middle 
of  a  world  too  active  and  awake  to  suit  with  the 
temper  of  such  reveries.  .  .  .  The  eye  of  the  passer- 
by, looking  from  the  southern  bank  of  the  Seine,  sees 
only  a  few  dozen  old  houses  left  opposite  him,  with 
their  fantastic  fronts  and  forest  of  chimneys,  between 
the  corner  of  the  Louvre  and  that  of  the  Pont  Neuf, 
as  fragments  of  his  beloved  old  Paris. 

HERMAN    MERIVALE. 
24 


370  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

EVOCATION  OF  OLD  PARIS 

Even  to  the  lightest,  and,  apparently,  most  frivolous 
dispositions,  it  is  a  melancholy  task  to  search  under 
the  cold  ashes  for  the  few  sparks  which  still  remain  : 
it  is  a  melancholy  task,  after  a  lapse  of  generations 
so  full  of  life — the  life  of  wit,  grace,  genius,  beauty, 
and  courage — to  pass  over  the  same  spot,  now 
abandoned  to  nameless  people  ...  to  everything 
which  is  silence,  oblivion,  repose.  When  you  walk 
on  these  sounding  flagstones,  the  noise  of  your  step 
terrifies  you,  and  you  turn  round  your  head  to  see 
if  some  one  of  the  heroes  of  old  days  is  not  following 
you — La  Tremouille,  Lavardin,  Conde,  Lauzun, 
Benserade.  In  the  midst  of  this  darkness  and  silence, 
you  ask  yourself,  why  have  not  the  people  of  M.  de  la 
Rochefoucauld,  of  Gabrielle  d'Estrees,  and  Madame 
de  Montespan,  lighted  their  torches  to  show  the  way 
to  the  carriage  or  the  sedan  of  their  mistress  ?  Hush  ! 
from  whence  came  that  sound  of  music  and  petits 
violons  ?  It  came  from  the  Ruedin  Pare  ;  and  this 
crowd  of  eager-looking  citizens,  whither  are  they 
going  ?  They  are  following  the  invitation  of  their 
friend  Moliere ;  they  are  hastening  to  the  Comedy, 
the  new  source  of  excitement  which  attracts  them  : 
they  are  bound  for  the  Hotel  Carnavalet,  where 
Georges  Dandin  is  acted  to-night.  And  all  the  great 
hotels  which  I  see  here,  of  which  the  gates  are  closed 
and  silent — and  all  those  lofty  windows,  where  no 
one  shows  himself — how  were  they  called  hereto- 
fore ?  These  were  the  Hotel  Sully,  the  Hotel  Videix, 
the  Hotel  d'Aligre,  the  Hotel  de  Rohan,  the  Hotel 
Rotrou,  the  Hotel  Guemenee — noble  dwellings  turned 
into   ill-furnished   lodgings.  .  .  .     What   may  these 


PARIS  OF  THE  PAST  371 

aristocratic  walls  think  of  seeing  themselves  thus 
decayed,  silent,  disdained  !  WTiat  stillness  in  these 
saloons,  once  so  animated  with  powerful  conversation  ! 
What  sadness  on  these  gilt  ceilings,  all  charged  with 
loves  and  with  emblems  !  What  incessant  change — 
what  ultimate  wretchedness  !  And  does  it  not  need 
some  courage,  once  more  be  it  said,  to  trace  out  all 
the  remembrances  of  this  fair  spot,  in  which  lived, 
and  thought  aloud,  the  rarest  wits,  the  noblest 
geniuses,  the  most  delightful  satirists,  the  most 
excellent  characters  of  that  singular  age  which  pre- 
ceded so  closely,  as  if  to  foreshadow  it,  all  the  French 
seventeenth  century ;  great  names  before  which 
every  one  bows  with  reverence  ;  illustrious  frequenters 
of  the  Palace  Royale,  and  component  parts  of  its 
history  ?  Nevertheless,  this  evocation  of  old  times 
is  thus  far  useful  that  it  may  help  to  console  us  for 
the  oblivion  and  silence  which  threatens  us  in  turn. 

JULES    JANIN. 

A  TOUR  OF  THE  KING'S  PALACES 
From  a  Traveller's  Letter 

Jnly,  1713- 
'  Sir, — I  am  settled  for  some  time  at  Paris.  Since 
my  being  here  I  have  made  the  tour  of  all  the  King's 
palaces,  which  has  been,  I  think,  the  pleasantest  part 
of  my  life.  I  could  not  believe  it  was  in  the  power  of 
art,  to  furnish  out  such  a  multitude  of  noble  scenes 
as  I  met  with,  or  that  so  many  delightful  prospects 
could  lie  within  the  compass  of  a  man's  imagination. 
There  is  every  thing  done  that  can  be  expected  from 
a  prince  who  removes  mountains,  turns  the  course 
of  rivers,  raises  woods  in  a  day's  time,  and  plants  a 

24 — 2 


372  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

village  or  town  on  such  a  particular  spot  of  ground, 
only  for  the  bettering  of  a  view.  One  would  wonder 
to  see  how  many  tricks  he  has  made  the  water  play 
for  his  diversions.  It  turns  itself  into  pyramids, 
triumphal  arches,  glass  bottles,  imitates  a  fire  work, 
rises  in  a  mist,  or  tells  a  story  out  of  ^sop. 

I  do  not  believe,  as  good  a  poet  as  you  are,  that 
you  can  make  finer  landscapes  than  these  about  the 
king's  houses,  or,  with  all  your  descriptions,  raise  a 
more   magnificent    palace    than    Versailles.      I    am, 
however,  so  singular  as  to  prefer  Fontainebleau  to 
all  the  rest.     It  is  situated  among  rocks  and  woods, 
that  give  you  a  fine  variety  of  salvage  prospects. 
The  king  has  humoured  the  genius  of  the  place,  and 
only  made  use  of  so  much  art  as  is  necessary  to  help 
and  regulate  Nature,  without  reforming  her  too  much. 
The  cascades  seem  to  break  through  the  clefts  and 
cracks  of  rocks  that  are  covered  with  moss,  and  look 
as  if  they  were  piled  upon  one  another  by  accident. 
There  is   an   artificial  wilderness  in  the  meadows, 
walks,  and  canals  ;  and  the  garden,  instead  of  a  wall, 
is  fenced  on  the  lower  end  by  a  natural  mound  of 
rock-work  that  strikes  the  eye  very  agreeably.     For 
my  part,  I  think  there  is  something  more  charming 
in  these  rude  heaps  of  stone  than  in  so  many  statues, 
and  would  as  soon  see  a  river  winding  through  woods 
and  meadows,  as  when  it  is  tossed  up  in  so  many 
whimsical  figures  at  Versailles.    To  pass  from  works  of 
nature  to  those  of  art :  in  my  opinion,  the  pleasantest 
part  of  Versailles  is  the  gallery.     Every  one  sees  on 
each  side  of  it  something  that  will  be  sure  to  please 
him.     For  one  of  them  commands  a  view  of  the 
finest  garden  in  the  world,  and  the  other  is  wainscoted 
with  looking-glass.  .  .  . 


PARIS  OF  THE  PAST  373 

But  what  makes  all  these  shows  the  more  agree- 
able, is  the  great  kindness  and  affability  that  is 
shown  to  strangers.  If  the  French  do  not  excel 
the  English  in  all  the  arts  of  humanity,  they  do  at 
least  in  the  outward  expression  of  it.  And  upon  this, 
as  well  as  other  accounts,  though  I  believe  the 
English  are  a  much  wiser  nation,  the  French  are  un- 
doubtedly much  more  happy.  Their  old  men  in 
particular  are,  I  believe,  the  most  agreeable  in  the 
world.  An  antediluvian  could  not  have  more  life 
and  briskness  in  him  at  threescore  and  ten  :  for  that 
fire  and  levity  which  makes  the  young  ones  scarce 
conversable,  when  a  little  wasted  and  tempered  by 
years,  makes  a  very  pleasant  and  gay  old  age.  Be- 
sides, this  national  fault  of  being  so  very  talkative 
looks  natural  and  graceful  in  one  that  has  grey  hairs 
to  countenance  it.     I  am.  Sir,  &c.' 

SIR    RICHARD    STEELE. 

LADY  MARY  MONTAGUE  DESCRIBES  PARIS  TO 
SOME  FRIENDS 

Paris, 

October  10,  1718. 

I  CANNOT  give  my  dear  Lady  Rich  a  better  proof  of 
the  pleasure  I  have  in  writing  to  her,  than  choosing 
to  do  it  in  this  seat  of  various  amusements,  where  I 
am  accablee  with  visits,  and  those  so  full  of  vivacity 
and  compliment,  that  'tis  full  employment  enough  to 
hearken,  whether  one  answers  or  not.  .  .  .  The  air 
of  Paris  has  already  had  a  good  effect  on  me  ;  for  I 
was  never  in  better  health,  though  I  have  been  ex- 
tremely ill  all  the  road  from  Lyons  to  this  place.  .  .  . 
While  the  post-horses  are  changed,  the  whole  town 
comes  out  to  beg,  with  such  miserable  starved  faces, 


374  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

and  thin  tattered  clothes.  .  .  .  This  is  all  the  French 
magnificence  till  you  come  to  Fontainebleau.  There 
you  begin  to  think  the  kingdom  rich  when  you  are 
shewed  one  thousand  five  hundred  rooms  in  the 
King's  huntmg  palace.  The  apartments  of  the  royal 
family  are  very  large,  and  richly  gilt  ;  but  I  saw, 
nothing  in  the  architecture  or  painting  worth  re- 
membering. The  long  gallery,  built  by  Henry  IV., 
has  prospects  of  all  the  King's  houses  :  its  walls  are 
designed  after  the  taste  of  those  times  but  appear 
now  very  mean.  The  park  is,  indeed,  finely  wooded 
and  watered,  the  trees  well  grown  and  planted,  and 
in  the  fish-ponds  are  kept  tame  carp,  said  to  be, 
some  of  them,  eighty  years  of  age.  The  late  King 
passed  some  months  every  year  at  this  seat ;  and  all 
the  rocks  around  it,  by  the  pious  sentences  inscribed 
on  them,  shew  the  devotion  in  fashion  at  his  court, 
which  I  beUeve  died  with  him  ;  at  least,  I  see  no  ex- 
terior marks  of  it  at  Paris,  where  all  people's  thoughts 
seem  to  be  on  present  diversion. 

The  fair  of  St.  Lawrence  is  now  in  season.  You 
may  be  sure  I  have  been  carried  thither,  and  think 
it  much  better  disposed  than  ours  of  Bartholomew. 
The  shops  being  all  set  in  rows  so  regularly,  and  well 
lighted,  they  made  up  a  very  agreeable  spectacle. 
But  I  was  not  at  all  satisfied  with  the  grossierete  of 
their  harlequin,  no  more  than  with  their  music  at 
the  opera,  which  was  abominably  grating,  after  being 
used  to  that  of  Italy.  Their  house  is  a  booth,  com- 
pared to  that  of  the  Haymarket,  and  the  play-house 
not  so  neat  as  that  in  Lincoln's  Inn-fields  ;  but  then 
it  must  be  owned,  to  their  praise,  their  tragedians  are 
much  beyond  any  of  ours.  ...  I  must  tell  you  some- 
thing of  the  French  ladies ;   I  have  seen   all  the 


PARIS  OF  THE  PAST  375 

beauties.  ...  So  fantastically  absurd  in  their  dress  ! 
so  monstrously  unnatural  in  their  paints  !  their  hair 
cut  short,  and  curled  round  their  faces,  loaded  with 
powder,  that  makes  it  look  like  white  wool  !  and  on 
their  cheeks  to  their  chins,  unmercifully  laid  on,  a 
shining  red  japan,  that  glistens  in  a  most  flaming 
manner,  that  they  seem  to  have  no  resemblance  to 
human  faces,  and  I  am  apt  to  believe,  took  the  first 
hint  of  their  dress  from  a  fair  sheep  newly  ruddled. 
'Tis  with  pleasure  I  recollect  my  dear  pretty  country- 
women. 

Paris, 
October  16,     1718. 

You  see  I'm  just  to  my  word,  in  writing  to  you 
from  Paris,  where  I  was  very  much  surprised  to  meet 
my  sister.  I  need  not  add,  very  much  pleased. 
She  as  little  expected  to  see  me  as  I  her  (having  not 
received  my  late  letters).  ...  To  shorten  the  story, 
all  questions  and  answers,  and  exclamations,  and 
compliments,  being  over,  we  agreed  upon  running 
about  together,  and  have  seen  Versailles,  Trianon, 
Marli,  and  St.  Cloud.  We  had  an  order  for  the 
waters  to  play  for  our  diversion,  and  I  was  followed 
thither  by  all  the  English  at  Paris.  .  .  .  Trianon,  in 
its  littleness,  pleased  me  better  than  Versailles ; 
Marli,  better  than  either  of  tlicm  ;  and  St.  Cloud,  best 
of  all  ;  having  the  advantage  of  the  Seine  running  at 
the  bottom  of  the  gardens,  the  great  cascade,  &c.  .  .  . 

We  saw  the  King's  pictures  in  the  magnificent 
house  of  the  Duke  d'Antin,  who  has  the  care  of  pre- 
serving them  till  his  Majesty  is  of  age.  There  are 
not  many,  but  of  the  best  hands.  I  looked  with  great 
pleasure  on  the  archangel  of  Raphael,  'where  the 


376  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

sentiments  of  superior  beings  are  as  well  expressed 
as  in  Milton.  You  won't  forgive  me  if  I  say  nothing 
of  the  Thuilleries,  much  finer  than  our  Mall ;  and 
the  Cours,  more  agreeable  than  our  Hyde  Park,  the 
high  trees  giving  shade  in  the  hottest  season.  At  the 
Louvre  I  had  the  opportunity  of  seeing  the  King, 
accompanied  by  the  Duke  Regent,  He  is  tall  and 
well-shaped,  but  has  not  the  air  of  holding  the  crown 
so  many  years  as  his  grandfather.  ...  In  general,  I 
think  Paris  has  the  advantage  of  London,  in  the 
neat  pavement  of  the  streets,  and  the  regular  light- 
ing of  them  at  nights,  the  proportion  of  the  streets, 
the  houses  all  built  of  stone,  and  most  of  those  be- 
longing to  people  of  quality,  being  beautified  by 
gardens.  But  we  certainly  may  boast  of  a  town 
very  near  twice  as  large  ;  and  when  I  have  said  that, 
I  know  nothing  else  we  surpass  it  in. 

I  can  scarcely  look  with  an  easy  and  familiar 
aspect  at  the  levity  and  agility  of  the  airy  phantoms 
that  are  dancing  about  me  here,  and  I  often  think 
that  I  am  at  a  puppet-shew  amidst  the  representations 
of  real  life.  I  stare  prodigiously,  but  nobody  remarks 
it,  for  every  body  stares  here  ;  staring  is  a  la  mode — 
there  is  a  stare  of  attention  and  interet,  a  stare  of 
curiosity,  a  stare  of  expectation,  a  stare  of  surprise, 
and  it  would  greatly  amuse  you  to  see  what  trifling 
objects  excite  all  this  staring.  This  staring  would 
have  rather  a  solemn  kind  of  air,  were  it  not  allevi- 
ated by  grinning,  for  at  the  end  of  a  stare  there  comes 
always  a  grin,  and  very  commonly  the  entrance  of 
a  gentleman  or  a  lady  into  a  room  is  accompanied 
with  a  grin,  which  is  designed  to  express  complacence 
and  social  pleasure,  but  really  shews  nothing  more 
than  a  certain  contortion  of  muscles  that  must  make 


PARIS  OF  THE  PAST  377 

a  stranger  laugh  really,  as  they  laugh  artificially. 
The  French  grin  is  equally  remote  from  the  cheerful 
serenity  of  a  smile,  and  the  cordial  mirth  of  an  honest 
Enghsh  horse-laugh.  I  shall  not  perhaps  stay  here 
long  enough  to  form  a  just  idea  of  French  manners 
and  characters,  though  this,  I  believe,  would  require 
but  little  study,  as  there  is  no  great  depth  in  either. 
It  appears,  on  a  superficial  view,  to  be  a  frivolous, 
restless,  and  agreeable  people.  The  Abbot  is  my 
guide,  and  I  could  not  easily  light  upon  a  better  ;  he 
tells  me  that  here  the  women  form  the  character  of 
the  men,  and  I  am  convinced  in  the  persuasion  of 
this  by  every  company  into  which  I  enter.  There 
seems  here  to  be  no  intermediate  state  between  in- 
fancy and  manhood  ;  for  as  soon  as  the  boy  has  quit 
his  leading-strings,  he  is  set  agog  in  the  world  ;  the 
ladies  are  his  tutors,  they  make  the  first  impressions, 
which  generally  remain,  and  they  render  the  men 
ridiculous  by  the  imitation  of  their  humours  and 
graces,  so  that  dignity  in  manners  is  a  rare  thing 
here  before  the  age  of  sixty.  Does  not  King  David 
say  somewhere,  that  Man  walketh  in  a  vain  shew  ?  I 
think  he  does,  and  I  am  sure  this  is  peculiarly  true  of 
the  Frenchman — but  he  walks  merrily  and  seems  to 
enjoy  the  vision,  and  may  he  not  therefore  be 
esteemed  more  happy  than  many  of  our  solid  thinkers, 
whose  brows  are  furrowed  by  deep  reflection,  and 
whose  wisdom  is  so  often  clothed  with  a  misty  mantle 
of  spleen  and  vapours  ? 

What  delights  me  most  here  is  a  view  of  the  mag- 
nificence, often  accompanied  with  taste,  that  reigns  in 
the  King's  palaces  and  gardens  ;  for  though  I  don't 
admire  much  the  architecture,  in  which  there  is  great 
irregularity  and  want  of  proportion,  yet  the  statues, 


378  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

paintings,  and  other  decorations  afford  me  high  enter- 
tainment. One  of  the  pieces  of  antiquity  that 
struck  me  most  in  the  gardens  of  Versailles,  was  the 
famous  colossean  statue  of  Jupiter,  the  workmanship 
of  Myron,  which  Mark  Antony  carried  away  from 
Samos,  and  Augustus  ordered  to  be  placed  in  the 
Capitol.  It  is  of  Parian  marble,  and  though  it  has 
suffered  in  the  ruin  of  time,  it  still  preserves  striking 
lines  of  majesty.  But  surely,  if  marble  could  feel, 
the  god  would  frown  with  a  generous  indignation  to 
see  himself  transported  from  the  Capitol  into  a  French 
garden  ;  and  after  having  received  the  homage  of  the 
Roman  emperors,  who  laid  their  laurels  at  his  feet 
when  they  returned  from  their  conquests,  to  behold 
now  nothing  but  frizzled  beaus  passing  by  him  with 
indifference.  .  .  . 

I  am  hurried  to  death,  and  my  head  swims  with 
that  vast  variety  of  objects  which  I  am  obliged  to  view 
with  such  rapidity,  the  shortness  of  my  time  not 
allowing  me  to  examine  them  at  my  leisure.  There 
is  here  an  excessive  prodigality  of  ornaments  and 
decorations,  that  is  just  the  opposite  extreme  to 
what  appears  in  our  royal  gardens  ;  this  prodigality 
is  owing  to  the  levity  and  inconstancy  of  the  French 
taste,  which  always  pants  after  something  new,  and 
thus  heaps  ornament  upon  ornament  without  end  or 
measure. 

LADY  MARY   MONTAGUE. 


CAPRICES  OF  PARISIAN  FASHIONS 

I  COULD  not  leave  Paris,  without  carrying  my  wife 
and  girls  to  see  the  most  remarkable  places  in  and 
about   this   capital,    such   as   the   Luxemburg,    the 


>i$>— 


PARIS  OF  THE  PAST  379 

Palais-Royal,  the  Thuilleries,  the  Louvre,  the  In- 
valids, the  Gobelins,  &c.,  together  with  Versailles, 
Trianon,  Marli,  Meudon,  and  Choissi.  .  .  .  Twenty- 
years  ago  the  river  Seine,  within  a  mile  of  Paris,  was 
as  solitary  as  if  it  had  run  through  a  desert.  At 
present  the  banks  of  it  are  adorned  with  a  number 
of  elegant  houses  and  plantations,  as  far  as  Marh,  I 
need  not  mention  the  machine  at  this  place  for  raising 
water,  because  I  know  you  are  well  acquainted  wath 
its  construction  ;  nor  shall  I  say  anything  more  of  the 
city  of  Paris,  but  that  there  is  a  new  square,  built 
upon  an  elegant  plan,  at  the  end  of  the  garden  of  the 
Thuilleries :  it  is  called  Place  de  Louis  XV.,  and  in 
the  middle  of  it  there  is  a  good  equestrian  statue  of 
the  reigning  king. 

You  have  often  heard  that  Louis  XIV.  frequently 
regretted  that  his  country  did  not  afford  grav^el  for 
the  walks  of  his  gardens,  which  are  covered  with  a 
white,  loose  sand,  very  disagreeable  both  to  the  eyes 
and  feet  of  those  who  walk  upon  it  ;  but  this  is  a 
vulgar  mistake.  There  is  plenty  of  gravel  on  the 
road  between  Paris  and  Versailles,  as  well  as  in  many 
other  parts  of  this  kingdom  ;  but  the  French,  who  are 
all  for  glare  and  glitter,  think  the  other  is  more  gay 
and  agreeable.  .  .  . 

In  the  character  of  the  French,  considered  as  a 
people,  there  are  undoubtedly  many  circumstances 
truly  ridiculous.  You  know,  the  fashionable  people, 
who  go  a  hunting,  are  equipped  with  their  jack  boots, 
bag  wigs,  swords  and  pistols  :  but  I  saw  the  other  day 
a  scene  still  more  grotesque.  On  the  road  to  Choissi, 
a  fiacre,  or  hackney-coach,  stopped,  and  out  came  five 
or  six  men,  armed  with  musquets,  who  took  post,  each 
behind  a  separate  tree.     I  asked  our  servant  who  they 


38o  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

were,  imagining  they  might  be  archers,  or  footpads  of 
justice,  in  pursuit  of  some  malefactor.  But  guess  my 
surprise,  when  the  fellow  told  me,  they  were  gentle- 
men a  la  chasse.  They  were  in  fact  come  out  from 
Paris,  in  this  equipage,  to  take  the  diversion  of  hare- 
hunting  ;  that  is,  of  shooting  from  behind  a  tree  at 
the  hares  that  chanced  to  pass.  Indeed,  if  they  had 
nothing  more  in  view,  but  to  destroy  the  game,  this 
was  a  very  effectual  method  ;  for  the  hares  are  in  such 
plenty  in  this  neighbourhood,  that  I  have  seen  a  dozen 
together,  in  the  same  field.  I  think  this  way  of 
hunting,  in  a  coach  or  chariot,  might  be  properly 
adopted  at  London,  in  favour  of  those  aldermen  of 
the  city  who  are  too  unwieldy  to  follow  the  hounds 
a  horseback. 

The  French,  however,  with  all  their  absurdities, 
preserve  a  certain  ascendancy  over  us,  which  is  very 
disgraceful  to  our  nation  ;  and  this  appears  in  nothing 
more  than  in  the  article  of  dress.  We  are  contented 
to  be  thought  their  apes  in  fashion  ;  but,  in  fact,  we 
are  slaves  to  their  taylors,  mantua-makers,  barbers, 
and  other  tradesmen.  One  would  be  apt  to  imagine 
that  our  own  tradesmen  had  joined  them  in  a  combi- 
nation against  us.  When  the  natives  of  France  come 
to  London,  they  appear  in  all  public  places,  with 
cloaths  made  according  to  the  fashion  of  their  own 
country,  and  this  fashion  is  generally  admired  by  the 
English.  Why,  therefore,  don't  we  follow  it  im- 
plicitly ?  No,  we  pique  ourselves  upon  a  most  ridi- 
culous deviation  from  the  very  modes  we  admire,  and 
please  ourselves  with  thinking  this  deviation  is  a 
mark  of  our  spirit  and  liberty.  But,  we  have  not 
spirit  enough  to  persist  in  this  deviation,  when  we 
visit  their  country :  otherwise,  perhaps,  they  would 


PARIS  OF  THE  PAST  381 

come  to  admire  and  follow  our  example  :  for,  cer- 
tainly, in  point  of  true  taste,  the  fashions  of  both 
countries  are  equally  absurd.  At  present,  the  skirts 
of  the  English  descend  from  the  fifth  rib  to  the  calf 
of  the  leg,  and  give  the  coat  the  form  of  a  Jewish 
gaberdine  ;  and  our  hats  seem  to  be  modelled  after 
that  which  Pistol  wears  upon  the  stage.  ...  In  every 
other  circumstance  of  dress,  male  and  female,  the 
contrast  between  the  two  nations  appears  equally 
glaring.  What  is  the  consequence  ?  when  an  English- 
man comes  to  Paris,  he  cannot  appear  until  he  has 
undergone  a  total  metamorphosis.  At  his  first 
arrival  he  finds  it  necessary  to  send  for  the  taylor, 
perruquier,  hatter,  shoemaker,  and  every  other 
tradesman  concerned  in  the  equipment  of  the  human 
body.  He  must  even  change  his  buckles,  and  the 
form  of  his  ruffles  ;  and,  though  at  the  risque  of  his 
life,  suit  his  cloaths  to  the  mode  of  the  season.  For 
example,  though  the  weather  should  be  never  so 
cold,  he  must  wear  his  habit  d'ete,  or  demi-saison,  with- 
out presuming  to  put  on  a  warm  dress  before  the  day 
which  fashion  has  fixed  for  that  purpose  ;  and  neither 
old  age  nor  infirmity  will  excuse  a  man  for  wearing  his 
hat  upon  his  head,  either  at  home  or  abroad.  Fe- 
males are  (if  possible),  still  more  subject  to  the 
caprices  of  fashion  ;  and  as  the  articles  of  their  dress 
are  more  manifold,  it  is  enough  to  make  a  man's 
heart  ake  to  see  his  wife  surrounded  by  a  multitude 
of  cotturieres,  milliners,  and  tire-women.  All  her 
sacks  and  negligees  must  be  altered  and  new  trimmed. 
She  must  have  new  caps,  new  laces,  new  shoes,  and 
her  hair  new  cut.  She  must  have  her  taffaties  for 
the  summer,  her  flowered  silks  for  the  spring  and 
autumn,  her  sattins  and  damasks  for  winter.     The 


383  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

good  man,  who  used  to  wear  the  heau  drap  d'Angle- 
terre,  quite  plain  all  the  year  round,  with  a  long  bob, 
or  tye  perriwig,  must  here  provide  himself  with  a 
camblet  suit  trimmed  with  silver  for  spring  and 
autvunn,  with  silk  cloaths  for  summer,  and  cloth 
laced  with  gold,  or  velvet  for  winter ;  and  he  must 
wear  his  bag-wig  ct  la  pigeon.  This  variety  of  dress 
is  absolutely  indispensable  for  all  those  who  pretend 
to  any  rank  above  the  mere  bourgeois.  On  his  re- 
turn to  his  own  country,  all  this  frippery  is  useless. 
He  cannot  appear  in  London  until  he  has  undergone 
another  thorough  metamorphosis  ;  so  that  he  will 
have  some  reason  to  think,  that  the  tradesmen  of 
Paris  and  London  have  combined  to  lay  him  under 
contribution  :  and  they,  no  doubt,  are  the  directors 
who  regulate  the  fashions  in  both  capitals ;  the 
English,  however,  in  a  subordinate  capacity :  for 
the  puppets  of  their  making  will  not  pass  at  Paris, 
nor  indeed  in  any  other  part  of  Europe  ;  whereas  a 
French  petit  maitre  is  reckoned  a  complete  figure 
every  where,  London  not  excepted.  Since  it  is  so 
much  the  humour  of  the  English  at  present  to  run 
abroad,  I  wish  they  had  antigallican  spirit  enough  to 
produce  themselves  in  their  own  genuine  English 
dress,  and  treat  the  French  modes  with  the  same 
philosophical  contempt,  which  was  shewn  by  an 
honest  gentleman,  distinguished  by  the  name  of  Wig- 
Middleton.  That  unshaken  patriot  still  appears  in 
the  same  kind  of  scratch  perriwig,  skimming-dish  hat, 
and  slit  sleeve,  which  were  worn  five-and-twenty 
years  ago,  and  has  invariably  persisted  in  this  garb, 
in  defiance  of  all  the  revolutions  of  the  mode. 

TOBIAS    SMOLLETT    (1763). 


PARIS  OF  THE  PAST  383 

GOSSIP  FROM  PARIS 

Paris, 

September,  1784. 

The  fine  paved  road  to  this  town  has  many  incon- 
veniences, and  jars  the  nerves  terribly  with  its  per- 
petual rattle  ;  the  approach  always  strikes  one  as 
very  fine,  I  think,  and  the  boulevards  and  guingettes 
look  always  pretty  too.  ...  I  was  pleased  to  go 
over  the  churches  again  too,  and  re-experience  that 
particular  sensation  which  the  disposition  of  St. 
Rocque's  altars  and  ornaments  alone  can  give.  In 
the  evening  we  looked  at  the  new  square  called  the 
Palais  Royal,  whence  the  Due  de  Chartres  has  re- 
moved a  vast  number  of  noble  trees,  which  it  was  a 
sin  and  shame  to  profane  with  an  axe,  after  they  had 
adorned  that  spot  for  so  many  centuries,  .  .  .  The 
French  are  really  a  contented  race  of  mortals  ;  pre- 
cluded almost  from  possibility  of  adventure,  the  low 
Parisian  leads  a  gentle  humble  life,  nor  envies  that 
greatness  he  can  never  obtain  ;  but  either  wonders 
delightedly,  or  diverts  himself  philosophically  with 
the  sight  of  splendours  which  seldom  fail  to  excite 
serious  envy  in  an  Englishman.  .  .  . 

Here  in  every  shop  the  behaviour  of  the  master 
at  first  sight  contradicts  all  that  our  satirists 
tell  us  of  the  supple  Gaul.  A  mercer  in  this  town 
shows  you  a  few  silks,  and  those  he  scarcely  opens ; 
vous  devez  choisir,  is  all  he  thinks  of  saying  to  invite 
your  custom  ;  then  takes  out  his  snuff-box,  and 
yawns  in  your  face,  fatigued  by  your  inquiries.  The 
manufacture  at  the  Gobelins  seems  exceedingly  im- 
proved :  the  colouring  less  inharmonious,  the  draw- 
ing more  correct  ;  but  our  Parisians  are  not  just  now 
thinking  about  such  matters  ;  they  are  all  wild  for 


384  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

love  of  a  new  comedy,  written  by  Mons.  de  Beau- 
marchais,  and  called  '  Le  Mariage  de  Figaro,'  full  of 
such  wit  as  we  were  fond  of  in  the  reign  of  Charles 
the  Second.  We  have  enjoyed  some  very  agreeable 
society  here  in  the  company  of  Comte  Turconi,  a 
Milanese  nobleman  who,  desirous  to  escape  all  the 
frivolous,  the  petty  distinction  which  birth  alone 
bestows,  has  long  fixed  his  residence  in  Paris,  where 
talents  find  their  influence,  and  where  a  great  city 
affords  that  unobserved  freedom  of  thought  and 
action  which  can  scarcely  be  expected  by  a  man  of 
high  rank  in  a  smaller  circle  ;  but  which,  when  once 
tasted,  will  not  seldom  be  preferred  to  the  attentive 
watchfulness  of  more  confined  society,  .  .  . 

All  Paris,  I  think,  myself  among  the  rest,  assembled 
to  see  the  valiant  brothers,  Robert  and  Charles, 
mount  yesterday  into  the  air,  in  company  with  a 
certain  Pilatre  de  Rosier,  who  conducted  them  in  the 
new-invented  flying  chariot  fastened  to  an  air- 
baloon.  It  was  from  the  middle  of  the  Tuileries 
that  they  set  out,  a  place  very  favourable  and  well- 
contrived  for  such  public  purposes.  But  all  was  so 
nicely  managed,  so  cleverly  carried  on  somehow, 
that  the  order  and  decorum  of  us  who  remained  on 
firm  ground  struck  me  more  than  ever  the  very 
strange  sight  of  human  creatures  floating  in  the 
wind  :  but  I  have  really  been  witness  to  ten  times 
as  much  bustle  and  confusion  at  a  crowded  theatre 
in  London,  than  what  these  peaceable  Parisians  made 
when  the  whole  city  was  gathered  together.  Nobody 
was  hurt,  nobody  was  frightened,  nobody  could  even 
pretend  to  feel  themselves  incommoded.  Such  are 
among  the  few  comforts  that  result  from  a  despotic 
government. 


PARIS  OF  THE  PAST  385 

My  republican  spirit,  however,  boiled  up  a  little 
last  Monday,  when  I  had  to  petition  ^lons.  de 
Calonne  for  the  restoration  of  some  trifles  detained  in 
the  custom-house  at  Calais.  His  politeness,  indeed, 
and  the  sight  of  others  performing  like  acts  of 
humiliation,  reconciled  me  in  some  measure  to  the 
drudgery  of  running  from  subaltern  to  subaltern, 
intreating,  in  pathetic  terms,  the  remission  of  a  law. 
.  .  .  We  mean  to  quit  Paris  to-morrow  ;  I  therefore 
enquired  this  evening,  what  was  become  of  our  aerial 
travellers.  A  very  grave  man  replied,  '  Je  crois, 
Madame,  qu'ils  sont  deja  arrives  ces  Messieurs  li 
au  lieu  ou  les  vents  se  forment.' 

MRS.    PIOZZI. 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  PARIS 

October  12th,  1787. — In  throwing  on  paper  a  rapid 
coup  d'ceil  of  what  I  see  of  a  city,  so  well  known  in 
England,  I  shall  be  apt  to  delineate  my  own  ideas 
and  feelings,  perhaps  more  than  the  objects  them- 
selves ;  and  be  it  remembered,  that  I  profess  to  dedi- 
cate this  careless  itinerary  to  trifles  much  more  than 
to  objects  that  are  of  real  consequence.  From  the 
tower  of  the  cathedral,  the  view  of  Paris  is  complete. 
It  is  a  vast  city,  even  to  the  eye  that  has  seen  London 
from  St.  Paul's  ;  being  circular,  gives  an  advantage 
to  Paris  ;  but  a  much  greater  is  the  atmosphere  ;  It 
is  now  so  clear,  that  one  would  suppose  it  the  height 
of  summer.  ...  At  night  to  the  opera,  which  I 
thought  a  good  theatre,  till  they  told  me  it  was  built 
in  six  weeks  ;  and  then  it  became  good  for  nothing  in 
my  eyes,  for  I  suppose  it  will  be  tumbling  down  in  six 
years.  .  .  .     The  Alceste  of  Gluck  was  performed  ; 

25 


3^6  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

that  part  by  Mademoiselle  St.  Huberti,  their  first 
singer,  an  excellent  actress.  As  to  scenes,  dresses, 
decorations,  dancing,  &c.  this  theatre  beats  the  Hay- 
market  to  nothing.  .  .  . 

The  13th. — Called  on  Mr.  Cook  from  London,  who 
is  at  Paris  with  his  drill-plough,  waiting  for  weather 
to  shew  its  performance  to  the  duke  of  Orleans  ; 
this  is  a  French  idea,  improving  France  by  drilling. 
A  man  should  learn  to  walk  before  he  learns  to  dance. 
There  is  agility  in  cutting  capers,  and  it  may  be  done 
with  grace  ;  but  where  is  the  necessity  to  cut  them  at 
all  ? 

The  i4ih. — To  the  benedictine  abbey  of  St.  Ger- 
main, to  see  pillars  of  African  marble,  &c.  It  is  the 
richest  abbey  in  France  :  the  abbot  has  300,000  liv. 
a  year.  I  lost  my  patience  at  such  revenues  being 
thus  bestowed  ;  consistent  with  the  spirit  of  the  tenth 
century,  but  not  with  that  of  the  eighteenth.  What 
a  noble  farm  would  the  fourth  of  this  income  estab- 
lish !  what  turnips,  what  cabbages,  what  potatoes, 
what  clover,  what  sheep,  what  wool ! — are  not  these 
things  better  than  a  fat  ecclesiastic  ?  .  .  .  Past  the 
Bastile  ;  another  pleasant  object  to  make  agreeable 
emotions  vibrate  in  man's  bosom.  I  search  for  good 
farmers,  and  run  my  head  at  every  turn  against 
monks  and  state  prisoners.  .  .  .  By  the  Boulevards, 
to  the  Place  Louis  XV.  which  is  not  properly  a 
square,  but  a  very  noble  entrance  to  a  great  city. 
The  fagades  of  the  two  buildings  erected  are  highly 
finished.  The  union  of  the  Place  Louis  XV.  with  the 
Champs  Elysees,  the  gardens  of  the  Thuilleries  and 
the  Seine  is  open,  airy,  elegant  and  superb  ;  and  is 
the  most  agreeable  and  best  built  part  of  Paris  ;  here 
one  can  be  clean  and  breathe  freely.     But  by  far  the 


PARIS  OF  THE  PAST  387 

finest  thing  I  have  yet  seen  at  Paris  is  the  Halle  aux 
bleds,  or  corn  market  :  it  is  a  vast  rotunda  ;  the  roof 
entirely  of  wood,  upon  a  new  principle  of  carpentry. 
...  In  the  evening,  to  the  Comedie  Italienne,  the 
edifice  fine  ;  and  the  whole  quarter  regular  and  new 
built,  a  private  speculation  of  the  duke  de  Choiseul, 
whose  family  has  a  box  entailed  for  ever. — L'Aimant 
jaloux.  Here  is  a  young  singer,  Mademoiselle 
Renard,  with  so  sweet  a  voice,  that  if  she  sung 
Italian,  and  had  been  taught  in  Italy,  would  have 
made  a  delicious  performer. 

To  the  tomb  of  Cardinal  de  Richlieu,  which  is  a 
noble  production  of  genius  :  by  far  the  finest  statue 
I  have  seen.  Nothing  can  be  wished  more  easy  and 
graceful  than  the  attitude  of  the  cardinal,  nor  more 
expressive  nature  than  the  figure  of  weeping  science. 
Dined  with  my  friend  at  the  Palais  Royale,  at  a 
coffee-house  ;  well  dressed  people  ;  every  thing  clean, 
good,  and  well  served  :  but  here,  as  every  where 
else,  you  pay  a  good  price  for  good  things.  ...  In 
the  evening  to  I'JScole  des  Peres,  at  the  Comedie 
Fran^aise,  a  crying  larmoyant  thing.  This  theatre, 
the  principal  one  at  Paris,  is  a  fine  building,  with  a 
magnificent  portico.  After  the  circular  theatres  of 
France,  how  can  any  one  relish  our  ill  contrived 
oblong  holes  of  London  ?  .  .  . 

The  i8ih. — To  the  Gobelins,  which  is  undoubtedly 
the  first  manufacture  of  tapestry  in  the  world,  and 
such  an  one  as  could  be  supported  only  by  a  crowned 
head.  In  the  evening  to  that  incomparable  comedy 
Na  Metromanie,  of  Pyron,  and  well  acted.  The  more 
I  see  of  it  the  more  I  like  the  French  theatre  ;  and 
have  no  doubt  in  preferring  it  far  to  our  own.  Writers, 
actors,  buildings,  scenes,  decorations,  music,  dancing 

25—2 


388  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

take  the  whole  in  a  mass,  and  it  is  unrivalled  by 
London.  We  have  certainly  a  few  brilliants  of  the 
first  water  ;  but  thrown  all  in  the  scales,  and  that 
of  England  kicks  the  beam.  I  write  this  passage 
with  a  lighter  heart  than  I  should  do  were  it  giving 
the  palm  to  the  French  plough. 

The  22nd. — To  the  bridge  of  Neuilie,  said  to  be  the 
finest  in  France.  It  is  by  far  the  most  beautiful  one 
I  have  any  where  seen.  It  consists  of  five  vast 
arches  ;  flat,  from  the  Florentine  model ;  and  all  of 
equal  span  ;  a  mode  of  building  incomparably  more 
elegant,  and  more  striking  than  our  system  of 
different  sized  arches.  To  the  machine  at  Marly  ; 
which  ceases  to  make  the  least  impression.  Madam 
du  Barre's  residence,  Lusienne,  is  on  the  hill  just 
above  this  machine  ;  she  has  built  a  pavilion  on  the 
brow  of  the  declivity,  for  commanding  the  prospect, 
fitted  up  and  decorated  with  much  elegance.  There 
is  a  table  formed  of  Seve  porcelam,  exquisitely  done. 
I  forget  how  many  thousand  louis  d'ors  it  cost.  .  .  . 

To  Versailles.  In  viewing  the  king's  apartment, 
which  he  had  not  left  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  with  those 
slight  traits  of  disorder  that  showed  he  lived  in  it ;  it 
was  amusing  to  see  the  blackguard  figures  that  were 
walking  uncontrouled  about  the  palace,  and  even 
in  his  bed-chamber  ;  men  whose  rags  betrayed  them 
to  be  in  the  last  stage  of  poverty,  and  I  was  the  only 
person  that  stared  and  wondered  how  the  devil  they 
got  there.  It  is  impossible  not  to  like  this  careless 
indifference  and  freedom  from  suspicion.  One  loves 
the  master  of  the  house,  who  would  not  be  hurt  or 
offended  at  seeing  his  apartment  thus  occupied,  if 
he  returned  suddenly  ;  for  if  there  was  danger  of  this, 
the  intrusion  would  be  prevented.     This  is  certainly 


PARIS  OF  THE  PAST  389 

a  feature  of  that  good  temper  which  appears  to  me  so 
visible  everj^vhere  in  France.  I  desired  to  see  the 
Queen's  apartments,  but  I  could  not.  Is  her  majesty 
in  it  ?  No.  Why  then  not  see  it  as  well  as  the 
King's  ?  Ma  foi,  Mons.,  c'est  un  autre  chose.  Ramble 
through  the  gardens,  and  by  the  grand  canal,  with 
absolute  astonishment  at  the  exaggeration  of  writers 
and  travellers.  .  .  .  Let  those  who  desire  that  the 
buildings  and  establishments  of  Louis  XIV.  should 
continue  the  impression  made  by  the  writings  of 
Voltaire  go  to  the  canal  of  Languedoc,  but  by  no 
means  to  Versailles.     Return  to  Paris. 

ARTHUR    YOUNG. 


FANNY  BURNEY  IN  PARIS 

Paris, 

April,  1802. 

We  set  off  for  Paris  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
The  country,  broad,  flat,  or  barrenly  steep — without 
trees,  without  buildings,  and  scarcely  inhabited — 
exhibited  a  change  from  the  fertile  fields,  and  beauti- 
ful woods  and  gardens  and  civilization  of  Kent.  .  .  . 
This  part  of  France  must  certainly  be  the  least  fre- 
quented, for  we  rarely  met  a  single  carriage,  and  the 
villages,  few  and  distant,  seemed  to  have  no  inter- 
course with  each  other.  Dimanche,  indeed,  might 
occasion  this  stiffness,  for  we  saw,  at  almost  all  the 
villages,  neat  and  clean  peasants  going  to  or  coming 
from  Mass  and  seeming  indescribably  elated  and 
happy  by  the  public  permission  of  divine  worship 
on  its  originally  appointed  day.  .  .  .  What  most  in 
the  course  of  this  journey  struck  me,  was  the  satis- 
faction of  all  the  country  people,  with  whom  I  could 


390  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

converse,  at  the  restoration  of  Dimanche ;  and  the 
boasts  they  now  ventured  to  make  of  having  never 
kept  the  Decade,  except  during  the  dreadful  reign  of 
Robespierre,  when  not  to  oppose  any  of  his  severest 
decrees  was  insufficient  for  safety,  it  was  essential 
even  to  existence  to  observe  them  with  every  parade 
of  the  warmest  approval. 

Almost  immediately  after  my  arrival  in  Paris,  I 
was  much  surprised  by  a  visit  from  the  ci-devant 
Prince  de  Beauveau,  Madame  his  wife,  and  Made- 
moiselle de  Mortemar,  her  sister,  all  brought  by 
Madame  d'Henin.  .  .  .  Madame  d'Henin  took  us  to 
a  place  called  La  jolie  de  Chartres,  belonging  to  the 
Due  d'Orleans,  but  now  a  public  garden.  It  is  in 
a  state  of  ruin,  compared  with  what  it  formerly 
boasted  of  grandeur  ;  the  river  cut  through  it  is 
nearly  dried  up  from  neglect  of  the  fountains  ;  the 
house  is  turned  into  cake-rooms,  and  common 
benches  are  placed  in  the  most  open  parts  of  the 
garden,  while  a  multitude  of  little  bridges  are  half 
broken.  Nevertheless,  with  all  this,  M.  d'Arblay 
and  I,  with  our  West  Hamble  rusticity,  thought  it 
was  probably  more  beautiful,  though  less  habitable, 
than  in  its  pristine  state  ;  for  the  grass  wildly  growing 
was  verdant  and  refres'hing,  the  uncut  lilacs  were 
lavish  of  sweets,  and  Nature  all  around  seemed 
luxuriantly  to  revel  over  the  works  of  art. 

May  5,  1802. 

M.  d'Arblay  has  procured  us  three  tickets  for 
entering  the  apartments  at  the  Tuileries  to  see  the 
parade  of  General  Hulin,  now  high  in  actual  rank 
and  service,  but  who  has  been  a  sous-officier  under 
M.  d'Arblay's  command  ;  our  third  ticket  was  for 


PARIS  OF  THE  PAST  391 

Madame  d'Henin,  who  had  never  been  to  this  sight. 
.  .  .  Accordingly  the  coach  .  .  .  was  desired  to  stop 
at  Madame  d'Henin's  door,  so  as  to  let  us  get  into 
our  fiacre,  and  follow  it  straight.  This  was  done,  and 
our  precursor  stopped  at  the  gate  leading  to  the 
garden  of  the  Tuileries.  The  De  Beauveaus,  Made- 
moiselle de  Mortemar,  and  their  attending  General, 
alighted,  and  we  followed  their  example  and  joined 
them.  .  .  .  The  crowd  was  great,  but  civil  and  well- 
dressed  ;  and  we  met  with  no  impediment  till  we  came 
to  the  great  entrance.  Alas,  I  had  sad  recollections 
of  sad  readings  in  mounting  the  steps  !  We  had 
great  difficulty,  notwithstanding  our  tickets,  in 
making  our  way— I  mean  Madame  d'Henin  and  our- 
selves, for  Madame  de  Beauveau  and  Mademoiselle  de 
Mortemar,  having  an  officer  in  the  existing  military 
to  aid  them,  were  admitted  and  helped  by  all  the 
attendants  ;  and  so  forwarded  that  we  wholly  lost 
sight  of  them,  till  we  arrived,  long  after,  in  the  apart- 
ment destined  for  the  exhibition.  This,  however, 
was  so  crowded  that  every  place  at  the  windows  for 
seeing  the  parade  was  taken,  and  the  row  formed 
opposite  to  see  the  First  Consul  as  he  passed  through 
the  room  to  take  horse  was  so  thick  and  threefold 
filled  that  not  a  possibility  existed  of  even  a  passing 
peep.  Madame  d'Henin  would  have  retired,  but  as 
the  whole  scene  was  new  and  curious  to  me,  I  pre- 
vailed with  her  to  stay  that  I  might  view  a  little  of 
the  costume  of  the  company  ;  though  I  was  sorry  I 
detained  her,  when  I  saw  her  perturbed  spirits  from 
the  recollections  which,  I  am  sure,  pressed  upon  her 
on  re-entering  the  Palace.  .  .  .  The  scene  now,  with 
regard  to  all  that  was  present,  was  splendidly  gay  and 
highly  amusing.     The  room  was  full,  but  not  crowded. 


392  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

with  officers  of  rank  in  sumptuous  rather  than  rich 
uniforms,  and  exhibiting  a  martial  air  that  became 
their  attire,  which,  however,  generally  speaking,  was 
too  gorgeous  to  be  noble. 

Our  window  was  next  to  the  consular  apartment, 
in  which  Bonaparte  was  holding  a  levee,  and  it  was 
close  to  the  steps  ascending  to  it ;  by  which  means 
we  saw  all  the  forms  of  the  various  exits  and  en- 
trances and  had  opportunity  to  examine  every  dress 
and  every  countenance  that  passed  and  repassed. 
This  was  highly  amusing,  I  might  say  historic,  where 
the  past  history  and  the  present  office  were  known. . . . 
But  what  was  most  prominent  in  commanding  notice, 
was  the  array  of  the  aides-de-camp  of  Bonaparte, 
which  was  so  almost  furiously  striking,  that  all 
other  vestments,  even  the  most  gaudy,  appeared 
suddenly  under  a  gloomy  cloud  when  contrasted  with 
its  brightness.  .  .  . 

While  this  variety  of  attire,  of  carriage,  and  of 
physiognomy  amused  us  in  facing  the  passage  pre- 
pared for  the  First  Consul,  we  were  occupied  when- 
ever we  turned  round  by  seemg  from  the  window 
the  garden  of  the  Tuileries  ffiling  with  troops. 

In  the  first  row  at  the  window  where  we  stood 
were  three  ladies  who,  by  my  speaking  English  with 
Mademoiselle  de  Mortemar  and  Madame  de  Beauveau, 
discovered  my  country,  and,  as  I  have  since  heard, 
gathered  my  name  ;  and  here  I  blush  to  own  how 
unlike  was  the  result  to  what  one  of  this  nation  might 
liave  experienced  from  a  similar  discovery  in  England ; 
for  the  moment  it  was  buzzed  '  c'est  une  etr anger e, 
c'est  une  Anglaise,'  every  one  tried  to  place,  to  oblige, 
and  to  assist  me,  and  yet  no  one  looked  curious,  or 
stared  at  me.  .  ,  ,     Well,  there  are  virtues  as  well 


PARIS  OF  THE  PAST  393 

as  defects  of  all  classes  ;  and  John  Bull  can  fight  so 
good  a  battle  for  his  share  of  the  former  that  he  need 
not  be  utterly  cast  down  in  acknowledging  now  and 
then  a  few  of  the  latter. 

MADAME    d'aRBLAY    (FANNY    BURNEY). 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  IN  PARIS 

November  1,  1826. — Vogue  la  galdre  ;  et  voila  nous  a 
Paris.  ...  I  suppose  the  ravishing  is  going  to 
begin,  for  we  have  had  the  Dames  des  Halles,  with  a 
bouquet  like  a  maypole,  and  a  speech  full  of  honey 
and  oil,  which  cost  me  ten  francs  ;  also  a  small 
worshipper,  who  would  not  leave  his  name,  but  came 
settlement  pour  avoir  le  plaisir,  la  jelicite,  etc.,  etc. 
All  this  jargon  I  answer  with  corresponding  blarney 
of  my  own,  for  have  I  not  licked  the  black  stone  of 
that  ancient  castle  ?  As  to  French,  I  speak  it  as  it 
comes,  and  like  Doeg  in  Absalom  and  Achitophel — 

'  Dash  on  through  thick  and  thin, 
Through  sense  and  nonsense,  never  out  nor  in.' 

We  went  this  morning  with  M.  Gallois  to  the  Church 
of  St.  Genevieve.  .  .  .  We  were  unlucky  in  our 
day  for  sights,  this  being  a  high  festival — All  Souls' 
Day.  We  were  not  allowed  to  scale  the  steeple  of 
St.  Genevieve,  neither  could  we  see  the  animals  at  the 
Jardin  des  Plantes,  who,  though  they  have  no  souls, 
it  is  supposed,  and  no  interest,  of  course,  in  the 
devotions  of  the  day,  observe  it  in  strict  retreat,  like 
the  nuns  of  Kilkenny.  I  met,  however,  one  lioness 
walking  at  large  in  the  Jardin,  and  was  introduced. 
This  was  Madame  de  Souza,  the  authoress  of  some 
well-known  French  romances  of  a  very  classical 
ciiaracter,  I  am  told,  for  I  have  never  read  them. 


394  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

She  must  have  been  beautiful,  and  is  still  well-looked. 
She  is  the  mother  of  the  handsome  Count  de  Flahault, 
and  had  a  very  well-looking  daughter  with  her, 
besides  a  son  or  two.  She  was  very  agreeable.  We 
are  to  meet  again.  The  day  becoming  decidedly  rainy, 
we  returned  along  the  Boulevards  by  the  Bridge  of 
Austerlitz,  but  the  weather  spoiled  the  fine  show. 

We  dined  at  the  Ambassador,  Lord  Granville's. 
He  inhabits  the  same  splendid  house  which  Lord 
Castlereagh  had  in  1815,  namely,  Numero  30,  Rue 
de  Fauxbourg  St.  Honore.  It  once  belonged  to 
Pauline  Borghese,  and,  if  its  walls  could  speak,  they 
might  tell  us  mighty  curious  stories.  Without  their 
having  any  tongue,  they  speak  to  my  feelings  '  with 
most  miraculous  organ.'  In  these  halls  I  had  often 
seen  and  conversed  familiarly  with  many  of  the  great 
and  powerful,  who  won  the  world  by  their  swords, 
and  divided  it  by  their  counsel.  ...  I  have  seen 
in  these  rooms  the  Emperor  Alexander,  Platoff, 
Schwartzenberg,  old  Blucher,  Fouche,  and  many  a 
marshal  whose  truncheon  had  guided  armies — all 
now  at  peace,  without  subjects,  without  dominion, 
and  where  their  past  life,  perhaps,  seems  but  the 
recollection  of  a  feverish  dream.  What  a  group 
would  this  band  have  made  in  the  gloomy  regions 
described  in  the  Odyssey  ! 

November  2. — We  went  to  St.  Cloud  with  my  old 
friend  Mr.  Drummond,  now  living  at  a  pretty  maison 
de  campagne  at  Auteuil.  St.  Cloud,  besides  its  un- 
equalled views,  is  rich  in  remembrances.  I  did  not 
fail  to  visit  the  Orangerie,  out  of  which  Boney  expelled 
the  Council  of  Five-Hundred.  I  thought  I  saw  the 
scoundrels  jumping  the  windows,  with  the  bayonet 
at  their  rumps.     What  a  pity  the  house  was  not  two 


PARIS  OF  THE  PAST  395 

stories  high  !  I  asked  the  Swiss  some  questions  on 
the  locale,  which  he  answered  with  becoming  caution, 
saying,  however,  '  that  he  was  not  present  at  the 
time.'  There  are  also  new  remembrances.  A 
separate  garden,  laid  out  as  a  playground  for  the 
royal  children,  is  called  Trocadero,  from  the  siege 
of  Cadiz.  But  the  Bourbons  should  not  take  the 
military  ground — it  is  firing  a  pop-gun  in  answer  to 
a  battery  of  cannon.  All  within  the  house  is  de- 
ranged. Every  trace  of  Napoleon  or  his  reign  totally 
done  away,  as  if  traced  in  sand  over  which  the  tide 
has  passed.  Moreau  and  Pichegru's  portraits  hang 
in  the  royal  ante-chamber.  The  former  has  a  mean 
physiognomy  ;  the  latter  has  been  a  strong  and  stern- 
looking  man.  I  looked  at  him,  and  thought  of  his 
death-struggles.  In  the  guard-room  were  the  heroes 
of  La  Vendee,  Charette  with  his  white  bonnet,  the 
two  La  Roche  Jacquelins,  I'Escures,  in  an  attitude 
of  prayer,  Stofflet,  the  gamekeeper,  with  others. 

November  4. — After  tea  I  went  with  Anne  to  the 
Tuileries,  where  we  saw  the  royal  family  pass  through 
the  Glass  Galler}^  as  they  went  to  chapel.  We  were 
very  much  looked  at  in  our  turn,  and  the  King,  on 
passing  out,  did  me  the  honour  to  say  a  few  civil 
words,  which  produced  a  great  sensation.  Madame 
la  Dauphine  and  Madame  de  Berri  curtsied,  smiled, 
and  looked  extremely  gracious  ;  and  smiles,  bows, 
and  curtsies  rained  on  us  like  odours  from  all  the 
courtiers  and  ladies  of  the  train.  We  were  conducted 
by  an  officer  of  the  Royal  Gardes  du  Corps  to  a  con- 
venient place  in  the  chapel  where  we  had  the  pleasure 
of  hearing  the  Mass  performed  with  excellent  music. 

I  had  a  perfect  view  of  the  royal  family.  The 
King  is  the  same  in  age  as  I  knew  him  in  youth  at 


396  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

Holyrood-house, — debonair  and  courteous  in  the 
highest  degree.  Madame  Dauphine  resembles  very 
much  the  prints  of  Marie  Antoinette,  in  the  profile 
especially.  She  is  not,  however,  beautiful,  her 
features  being  too  strong,  but  they  announce  a  great 
deal  of  character,  and  the  Princess  whom  Buonaparte 
used  to  call  the  man  of  the  family.  She  seemed  very 
attentive  to  her  devotions.  The  Duchess  of  Berri 
seemed  less  immersed  in  the  ceremony,  and  yawned 
once  or  twice.  She  is  a  lively-looking  blonde — looks 
as  if  she  were  good-humoured  and  happy,  by  no 
means  pretty,  and  has  a  cast  with  her  eyes  ;  splendidly 
adorned  with  diamonds,  however.  .  .  . 

November  5-9. — The  French  are  literally  out- 
rageous in  their  civilities — bounce  in  at  all  hours  and 
drive  one  half  mad  with  compliments.  I  am  un- 
gracious not  to  be  so  entirely  thankful  as  I  ought 
to  this  kind  and  merry  people.  ...  In  the  evening 
to  Princess  Galitzin,  where  were  a  whole  covey  of 
Princes  of  Russia  arrayed  in  tartan,  with  music  and 
singing  to  boot.  The  person  in  whom  I  was  most 
interested  was  Madame  de  Boufilers,  upwards  of 
eighty,  very  polite,  very  pleasant,  and  with  all  the 
acquirements  of  a  French  court  lady  of  the  time  of 
Madame  Sevigne,  or  of  the  correspondent  rather  of 
Horace  Walpole.  .  .  .  Home,  and  settled  our  affairs 
to  depart.  ...     So  adieu  to  la  belle  France. 

SIR   WALTER    SCOTT. 

A    SCENE    OF    SPLENDOUR    IN    PARIS 
During  the  I-ast  Days  of  the  Empire 

Not  often  in  the  history  of  mankind  has  earth  been 
the  theatre  of  such  a  scene  of  splendour  as  that 


PARIS  OF  THE  PAST  397 

which  glorified  Paris  in  the  springtime  and  early 
summer  of  1867.  Perchance  in  some  far-off  Indian 
city,  in  ancient  Benares,  or  many-towered  Delhi, 
there  might  be  a  greater  glitter  of  gold  and  gems, 
statelier  processions.  Oriental  pomp  of  palanquins 
and  plumes,  caparisoned  elephants,  peacock  thrones, 
turbans  luminous  with  emerald  and  ruby  ;  but  that 
barbaric  show  would  have  had  but  feeble  historic 
meaning  as  compared  with  this  meeting  of  the  kings 
of  the  West,  the  statesmen  and  warriors,  the  finan- 
ciers and  long-headed  schemers,  the  makers  and  un- 
makers  of  kings.  It  was  a  mighty  rendezvous  of  the 
powers  of  the  civilized  world,  a  gathering  of  crowned 
heads,  all  seemingly  intent  upon  the  amusement  of 
the  hour,  yet  each  in  his  heart  of  hearts  intent  upon 
making  good  use  of  his  opportunities,  each  deter- 
mined to  turn  the  occasion  to  good  political  account. 
The  Czar  was  among  the  first  to  come,  accompanied 
by  his  two  sons.  It  was  not  long  since  their  elder 
brother  had  been  laid  in  his  coffin,  heaped  round  with 
the  fairest  flowers  of  Nice,  a  fair  young  form,  a  calm 
dead  face  in  the  midst  of  roses  and  lilies,  pale  image 
of  an  Imperial  youth  which  had  been  but  faintly 
reflected  on  the  stream  of  life,  surviving  only  in  a 
photograph.  William  of  Prussia  was  there,  flushed 
with  the  tremendous  victory  of  Sadowa — victory 
owed  in  great  part  to  the  neutraUty  of  France.  .  .  . 
Beside  the  stern  soldier-king  in  the  open  carriage  in 
which  he  entered  Paris  sat  the  two  master-spirits  of 
his  kingdom — his  mighty  General,  Moltke,  his 
mightier  Chancellor,  Bismarck.  Who  could  tell 
what  dreams  brooded  behind  those  steel-blue  eyes 
of  the  senator — large,  full,  projecting,  luminous  with 
the  light  of  a  master  mind  ?  what  hidden  plans  lurked 


398  THE  CHARM  OF  PARIS 

beneath  that  air  of  frank,  good  fellowship,  that  out- 
spoken Teutonic  simplicity  ?  Cavour,  giant  among 
statesmen,  was  as  dead  as  Machiavelli ;  but  his 
policy  and  his  capacity  lived  in  his  Prussian  pupil. 

The  East  sent  its  potentates  to  swell  the  Royal 
crowd.  The  Sultan's  large  grave  face,  with  dark 
solemn  e37es,  looked  calm  and  unmoved  upon  the  Im- 
perial show,  while  his  tributary,  the  Viceroy  of 
Egypt,  had  come  to  see  what  kind  of  people  these 
Frenchmen  were  who  wanted  to  cut  a  highway  for 
the  ships  of  the  world  through  the  sands  of  the  desert. 
Even  far-off  Japan  was  represented  by  the  brother  of 
its  secular  ruler. 

Princes  there  were  amidst  that  brilliant  throng, 
lighter  souls,  nursing  no  deep-laid  schemes,  hiding 
no  slumbering  fires — princes  who  came  honestly  to 
see  the  show,  and  to  drink  the  cup  of  pleasure  in  that 
season  which  seemed  one  long  festival.  England's 
future  king  was  there,  in  the  flower  of  his  youth, 
kindly,  dehonnaire,  keenly  intelligent,  first  favourite 
among  the  elite  of  Paris,  a  popular  figure  among  the 
populace  ;  the  young  Princes  of  Belgium,  the  Princes 
of  Prussia — they  who  were  to  come  three  years  later 
with  fire  and  sword,  bringing  in  their  train  death  and 
ruin,  burning  instead  of  beauty.  There  was  the 
Crown  Prince  of  Orange — a  prince  pour  rire,  and 
princelings  and  princesses  without  number.  Never 
saw  the  earth  such  a  gathering  of  its  great  ones, 
or  a  city  so  fitted  for  the  scene  of  a  festival. 
The  omnipotence  of  the  Emperor,  the  millions  poured 
out  hke  water  by  Prefect  Haussmann,  had  made  Paris 
a  city  of  palaces,  a  place  in  which  even  the  monu- 
ments and  statues  of  the  past  were  scraped  and 
purified  to  match  the  whiteness  of  the  new  Boule- 


PARIS  OF  THE  PAST  399 

vards — a  city  planned  for  the  rich,  built  for  the  chil- 
dren of  pleasure  and  of  folly,  as  it  would  seem  to 
Diogenes,  looking  in  the  summer  eventide  along  that 
dazzling  line  of  Boulevards,  that  mighty  thorough- 
fare which  swept  in  a  wide  arc  from  the  Bastille  to 
the  Champs  Elysees,  a  double  range  of  monumental 
mansions,  theatres,  restaurants,  cafes,  drinking  places 
of  every  kind  and  every  quality — a  fanfare  of  voices, 
and  music,  and  clinking  glasses,  and  airy  laughter 
from  sundown  to  midnight,  an  illumination  two 
leagues  long. 

Who  can  wonder  that  the  stranger,  blinded  by 
these  earthly  splendours,  steeped  in  the  intoxication 
that  hangs  in  the  very  air  of  such  a  city,  should  have 
ignored  the  storm-clouds  brooding  over  the  Imperial 
palace  ?  .  .  .  The  stranger  saw  no  clouds  in  that 
summer  sky,  dreamt  not  of  a  besieged  and  famished 
Paris,  in  which  these  very  streets  should  run  with 
blood,  these  fair  white  stones  should  be  torn  up  and 
heaped  into  barricades,  on  which  men  should  fight 
to  extinction,  hand  to  hand,  brother  against  brother, 
in  the  fury  of  Civil  War.  He  saw  only  the  glory  of 
the  world's  carnival  ;  he  heard  only  the  sounds  of 
music  and  dancing,  of  feasting  and  revelry. 

M.    E.    BRADDON. 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


Abelardus,  Pierre,  300 
Anderben,     Hans    Chris- 
tian, 309 
Ariosto,  Ludovico,  36 
Armour,  Margaret,  33 
Anon.,  72,  148,  185,  224 
Arnold,  Matthew,  112 

Balzac,    Honor6    de,   94, 

192 
Bayliss,  Sir  Wyke,  259 
Bashkirtseff,     Marie,    68, 

232 
Belloc,  Hilaire,  3,  81 
Bdranger,  Pierre-Jean  de, 

igi,  198,  318 
Blunt,  Wilfrid,  40 
Braddon,  M.  E.,  11,  159, 

.396 
Browning,  E.  B.,  43,  65 
Bulwer,  Edward,  82 
Burney,  Fanny,  389 
Byron,  Lord,  322,  323 

Carlyle,  Thomas,  206,  207, 

2)o,  313,  319,  33S 
Coryat,  Thomas,  38,  251, 

261,  353 
Cowper,  William,  248 
Croly, George,  72,  241,  276 

D'Arblay,  Madame,  389 
Daudet,  Alphonse,  2,  loi 
Delavigne,  Casiniir,  327 
Desaugiers,  M.,  120,  143, 

154,  228 
Dickens,  Charles,  83,  106, 

242,  277 
Dumas,  Alexandre,  307 

Edwards,  M.  Betham-,  86, 

226 
Emanuel,  Frank  L.,  168 
Evelyn,  John,  36,  304,  356 

Fairfield,  S.  L.,  268 
Froissart,  Sir  John,  333 

Gallienne,  Richard  le,  37 
Gautier,  Th^ophile,  235 
Gibbon,  Edward,  331 
Goulden,  W.  E.,  176,  215 


Hamerton,  Philip  Gilbert, 

57,  i88,  232,  263,  286 
Hawthorne,      Nathaniel, 

74.  241,  259 
Heme,  Heinrich,  33,  94 
Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell, 

54,  109,  250 
Houghton,  Lord,  260 
Howell,  James,  44,  287 
Hugo,  Victor,  26,  88,  131, 

199,  217,  233,  240,  33S, 

345 
Hunt,  Leigh,  31 

James,  Henry,  6 
Janin,  Jules,  370 
Jerrold,    W.    Blanchard, 

19s 

Lang,  Andrew,  i6g 
Lee,  Vernon,  gi,  227 
'Le      Petit      Homme 

Rouge,"  253 
Longfellow,  H.  W.,  270 
Lowell,  James  Ru;;sell,  2 
Lynch,  Hannah,  2,  330 
Lytton,  Lord,  82,  105 

Macdonald,  John  F.,  267 
Macdonald,  K.^lieW.,2i9 
Mackay,  Charles,  48 
Martin,  Eva  M.,  235 
Maurier,   George  du,  15, 

134,  182,  330 
Meredith,  Owen,  105 
M^rimee,  Prosper,  94 
Merivale,  Herman,  367 
Milnes,  Richard  Monck- 

ton,  260 
Molinet,  Clement,  14 
Montague,    Lady    Mary, 

373 
Montaigne,    Michael   de, 

10 
Moore,  Thomas,  50,  128 
Morris,  Sir  Lewis,  244 
Moryson,  Fynes,  339 
Moulton,  Louise  Chand- 
ler, 41,  79 
Murger,  Henri,  169,  176, 
215 


Nodier,  Jules,  80 
Noyes,  Alfred,  108 

Ouida,  30 

Payne,  John,  113 
Piozzi,  Mrs.,  383 
Pope,  Alexander,  295 

Quarterly  Review,   The, 
124 

Rell,  Max  O',  118 
Ricard,  Auguste,  203 
Rossetti,  Dante   Gabriel, 
77,  239 

Sala,   George    Augustus, 

77-  214 
Sardou,  Victorien,  330 
Scott,  Sir  Walter,  265,  393 
Senancour,  E.  P.  de,  56 
S6vign6,  Madame  de,  311 
Smith,  Albert,  170 
Smollett,  Tobias,  378 
Steele,  Sir  Richard,  371 
Sleevens,  G.  W.,  36 
Sterne,  Laurence,  68,  114. 

137,  232 
Sue,  Eugene,  189,  274,  284 
Symons,  Arthur,  g,  118 

Thackeray,  W.    M.,   95, 

173,  181,  221,  325 
Trares,  G.  J.,  55 
Twain,  Mark.  99,  264 

Verlaine,  Paul,  163 
Verrell,  Ambrose,  294 
Villon,  Frangois,  113 
Vizetelly,  Ernest  A.,  139, 
145,  150,  156,  161 

Waite,  A.  E.,  56 
Whiteing,  Richard,  68,  69 
Willis,  N.  P.,  220 
Wingate,  .^shmore,  58,163 
Wordsworth,  William,  20 

Young,  Arthur,  385 

Zola,  Emile,  139, 143,  150, 
156,  161 


400 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


TITLE 

SOURCE    OF    EXTRACT 

AUTHOR 

»AGE 

A  Ballade  of  Paris  Cafes    . 

'  Poems  ' 

Clement  Molincl 

14 

Abelard  and  Heloisc  . 

'The    Love    Let- 
ters of  Abelard 

and  Heloise  '    . 



300 

A  Bird's-eye  View  of  Paris 

in  14S2  .... 

'  Notre  Dame  '    . 

Victor  Hugo 

345 

A  Bohemian  Cafe 

'  Bohemians    of 
the  Latin  Quar- 

ter ' 

Henri  Murder   . 

176 

A  Chapter  from  Froiisart . 

'  Froissart's  Chron- 
icles ' 

Sir  John  Froissart    . 

333 

AFirst  Journey  to  Paris    . 

'  Le  P.-tit  Chose  ' 

Alphonse  Daudet 

lOI 

A  Hi^jht  to  Paris      . 

'  A  FliKht  • . 

Charles  Dickens 

277 

A     Letter     from     Sevcn- 

'  Familiar      Let- 

tetnth-Century Paris 

ters  ' 

James  Houell  . 

287 

An  Appeal  to  Paris   . 

'  Poems '      . 

Charles  Mackay 

48 

A  Picture  of  Old  Paris 

'  .\n  Itinerary  '  . 

Fyncs  Moryson 

339 

A  Picture  of  Paris     . 

Oxcnford's  '  Book 

of  French  Songs ' 

M.  Disaugicrs  . 

143 

A    Pleasure-trip    to   Saint 

Cloud 

'  Les  Misdrables  ' 

Victor  Hugo      . 

131 

A     Procession     to    Notre 

'  Coryat's    Crudi- 

Dame 

ties  ' 

Thomas  Coryat . 

353 

A  Rondeau  of  the  Boule- 

vards    .... 

'  Poems '  . 

J  tiles  Nodier     . 

80 

A  Room  in  the  Louvre      . 

•  Travel  Pictures ' 

Hans  Andersen  . 

3^9 

Arriving     at     Magnificent 

'  The     Innocents 

Paris 

Abroad ' . 

Mark  Twain     . 

99 

-Arriving  at  Paris 

'  The  Paris  Sketch- 

lyUliam    Makepeace 

Book  ' 

Thackeray     . 

95 

A  Scene  of  Splendour  in 

Paris      .... 

'  Ishmael '  . 

M.  E.  Braddon 

396 

A  Scene  iu  Paris 

'  The  Uncommer- 

cial Traveller  ' 

Charles  Dickens 

242 

A  Statue  and  a  Book  of 

&inKS     .... 

'  Autobiography ' 

Leigh  Hunt 

31 

A    Tour    of    the    King's 

Palaces 

"The  Guardian  ' . 

Sir  Richard  Steele    . 

371 

At  the  Ambassadeurs 

'  Poems '      . 

Arthur  SymoJis . 

118 

Autumn  in  Paris       . 

'  Two  .■^unts  and  a 

Nephew ' . 

M.  Betham-EdfLards . 

226 

Aux  Italicns 

'  Poems ' 

Owen  Meredith,         , 

103 

A  Week  at  Paris 

'The    Poetry   of 

WUfrid  Blunt'. 

Wilfrid  Blunt . 

40 

A     Wine  -  Shop     in     the 

'  A  Talc  ol  Two 

Suburb  of  St.  Antoinc    . 

Cities  •      . 

Charles  Dickens 

63 

Ballade  of  the  Wumca  of 

'  Poems  of  Villon  ' 

Translated    by    John 

Paris 

taynt  . 

"3 

401 

26 

402 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


TITLE 

SOURCE   OF  EXTRACT 

AUTHOR                 PAGE 

Barty    Josselin    is   Intro- 

duced 

'  The  Martian  '    . 

George  du  Maurier    . 

134 

Boulevard  and  Boulevar- 

dier        .         .         .         . 

Anon. 

72 

By  the  Side  of  the  Seine    . 

'  Paris  of  the  Pm- 

isians  '. 

John  F.  Macdonald  . 

267 

Caprices        of      Parisian 

'  Travels  through 

Fashions 

France    and 

Italy  ■       . 

Tobias  Smollett . 

3?8 

Characteristics  of  the  Latin 

'  The  Rowley  Let- 

Quarter 

ters  ' 

Anthony  Rowley 

185 

Charlotte  Corday      . 

'  The  French  Re- 

volution '. 

Thomas  Carlyle 

207 

•  Combien  j'ai  douce  souve 

nance !'          .         •         • 

'  Peter  Ibbetson  ' 

George  du  Maurier  . 

15 

Dante  in  Paris  . 

'  Poems  '      . 

Ambrose  Verrcll 

294 

Danton      .        .        . 

'  The  French  Re- 

volution '  . 

Thomas  Carlyle 

206 

Departure  from  Paris 

•  Poetical  Works  ' 

Heinrich  Heine         . 

33 

Description  of  Old  Paris 

'  The  Decline  and 
Fall  of  the  Ro- 

man Empire '  . 

Edward  Gibbon 

331 

Dusk  Falling  over  Paris 

'Paris' 

Emile  Zola 

156 

Early    Morning     in     the 

'  The  Fat  and  the 

Markets  of  Paris 

Thin '      . 

Emile  Zola        .        . 

139 

Eulogy  of  Paris . 

'  Familiar  Letters  ' 

James  Howell   .         . 

44 

Evocation  of  Old  Paris 

'  Place  Royale  '  , 

Jules  Janin 

370 

Fair,  Fantastic  Paris . 

'  Aurora  Leigh  '  . 

Elizabeth     Barrett 

Browning     . 

43 

Fanny  Burney  in  Paris 

.        •  The  Diary   and 

Letters  of  Ma- 

dame D'Arblay  ' 

Madame  D'Arblay    . 

389 

Faubourg  St.  Germain 

'Pelham'    . 

Lord  Lytton 

82 

Gossip  from  Paris    . 

t        '  A  J  ourney  through 
France     and 

Italy '       . 

Mrs.  Piozzi      .        i 

S83 

Heloise  to  Abelard    . 

,        ' Poems ' 

Alexander  Pope 

295 

Hotel  de  Cluny  . 

'  Paris ' 

Philip   Gilbert  Ham- 

erton 

863 

How  Spring  Comes  to  Par 

s        '  The   Bohemians 
of     the     Latin 

Quarter ' . 

Henri  Mwger  ,       t 

215 

Impressions  of  Eighteenth 

. 

Century  Paris 

'  Travels  in  France  ' 

Arthur  Young  . 

385 

Incomparable  Paris  . 

'  Letters  '     , 

Michael  de  Montaigne 

10 

In  Notre  Dame  . 

'  Paris,  1815  ' 

George  Croly 

241 

In  the  Crowd    . 

'  Poems  ' 

Alfred  Naves 

108 

In  the  Flower  Market 

'  Aurora  Leigh  '  . 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Brou 

n- 

ing        .        .        . 

65 

In  the  Heart  of  Paris. 

j        '  Tlie  French  and 
Italian  Note- 

books '     . 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

74 

TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


403 


TITLE 

SOURCE    Of   EXTRACT 

AUTHOR 

PAGE 

In  the  Rue  de  la  Pais 

.         '  Paris  herself 

again  ' 

George  A  uguslus  Sala 

77 

In  the  Rue  des  Billettes 

,        '  Romance    of    a 
French  Parson- 

age' 

M.  BeOiam-Ediiards  . 

86 

In  the  Streets  of  Paris 

,        '  Random   Ram- 

Louise Chandler  Motil- 

bles ' 

(on         .         .         . 

79 

Jeza  de  Paris    . 

'  Lyrical  Poems ' 

Pierre-Jean  de  Beran- 

ger 

191 

John  Evelyn  nt  the  Court 

of  Louis  XIV. 

'  The  Diary  ' 

John  Evelyn     ,        , 

304 

June  in  Paris     . 

'  Pencillin;;s   by 

the  Way  ' 

N.  P.  Willis     . 

220 

Lady  Mary  Montague  de 

scribes    Paris    to    som< 

Friends  . 

'Letters'    . 

Lady  Mary  Montague 

373 

La  Parisienne    . 

Oxenford's  '  Book 

of  French  Songs  ' 

Casimir  Delavigne     , 

327 

La  Sainte  Chapelle    , 

'  The    Enchanted 

Island  '     . 

Sir  Wyke  Bayliss 

259 

Le  Petit  Homme  Gris 

'  Lyrical  Poems ' 

Pierre -Ji-an    de    Bi- 

_^ 

r anger  . 

198 

Le  Petit  Homme  Rouge 

'  Lyrical  Poems ' 

Pierre  -  Jean  de  Bi- 

ranger    . 

318 

'  Little  Billee  '  in  Paris 

'  Trilby  '      . 

George  du  Maurier    . 

182 

Louis     XVI.     returns     tc 

1        'The  French  Re- 

Paris from  Versailles 

volution  ' 

Thomas  Carlyle 

313 

Madame  de  Sevign6  write 

to  M.  de  Coulanges 

'  Letters '    . 

Madame  de  Sivigni  . 

3" 

Magnificent  Paris 

'  The    Princess 

Casamassima  ' . 

Henry  James    .        , 

6 

Miss  Biddy  Fudge  writes 

to   Miss    Dorothy   

'  The  Fudge  Family 

from  Paris 

in  Paris' . 

Thomas  Moore  . 

50 

Montmartre :  Morning 

'  Paris,  1815  '      . 

George  Cruly 

275 

Napoleon's  Farewell  . 

'  Poems '     . 

Lord  Byron 

322 

New  Year's  Day  in  Paris 

Oxenford's   '  Book 

of  French  Songs  ' 

M.  Dlsaugiers  . 

228 

Night  Falling  over  Paris 

'  A  Love  Episode  ' 

Em  He  Zola 

161 

Night  in  the  Streets  of  Old 

'  The  Three  Mus- 

Paris 

keteers  '  . 

Alexandre  Dumas 

307 

Notre  Dame 

'  Poems  ' 

TlUophile  Guutier 

235 

Notre  Dame 

'  Les    Rayons    et 

les  Ombres' 

Victor  Hugo 

240 

Notre  Dame:  an  Impres- 

' The  French  and 

sion 

Italian   Note- 

books '     . 

Nathaniel  Hauthornt 

241 

Of  the  QuarticT  Latin 

'  The  .Adventures 

of  Mr.  Lothbury  ' 

Albert  Smith     . 

170 

Old  Paris  Reconstructed  . 

'  Notre  Dame  '   . 

Victor  Hugo 

335 

Old  Pierre's  Story     . 

'Ballads'    . 

William     Makepeace 

Thackeray 

325 

On  some  Waiters  at  Cer- 

' Pictures   of   the 

tain  Parisian  Caf^s 

French  '  . 

Augusle  li.card. 
26 2 

203 

404 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


TITLE 

On  the  Church  of  the 
Madeleine  at  Paris 

On  the  Star  of  'The 
Legion  of  Honour  ' 

Paris         .... 
Paris :    an    Autumn    Im- 
pression 
Paris  :  an  Estimate  . 

Paris  :  A  Parisian's  Apo- 
logy       .... 

Paris  :  A  Sunset  Picture    . 

Paris  at  Dawn   . 

Paris  at  Five  in  the  After- 
noon 

Paris  :  A  Total . 

Paris    Awakening    from 
Sleep     .... 

Paris  Day  by  Day  :  A 
Familiar  Epistle 

Paris :      Her      Limitless 

Amusements 
Paris :     Its     Picturesque 

Charm    .        .        .        . 
Parisian  Nocturne     . 
Parisians  at  Table     . 


Paris  :  Le  Dimanche 


of 


Paris:     Pre-eminent 

Cities 
Paris  Studied  in  its  Atom  . 
Paris  the  Enchantress 
Pere  La  Chaise  . 
Pere  La  Chaise  . 

Place  de  la  Bastille,  Paris  . 

Renewing     Acquaintance- 
ship with  Paris 

Restaurant   and    Restaur- 
ateur 
Revisiting  Paris 

Robespierre 


Saint  Cloud 

Seventeenth-Century  Paris 
Sir  Waller  Scott  in  P,iris  . 
Some    Famous    Cafes    of 

Paris 
Spring  in  Montparnasse     . 

Spring  In   the  Garden  of 
the  Luxembourg    . 


SOURCE   OF   EXTRACT 

AUTHOR                   PAGE 

'  Memories     of 

Richard     Monckton 

Many  Scenes ' 

Millies  . 

2  Co 

'  Poems  ' 

Lord  Byron       .        . 

323 

'  Poems '     . 

Arthur  Symons . 

9 

'  Genius  Loci  '     . 

Vernon  Lee 

227 

'  Paris ' 

Philip  Gilbert  Hamer- 

ton 

57 

'  Elegiac  Ecstasies ' 

Ashmore  Wingate     . 

58 

'  Paris  ' 

Emile  Zola 

150 

Author  Unknown 

148 

bxenford's  '  Book 

of  French  Songs ' 

M.  Desaugiers  . 

154 

'  Les  Miserables  ' 

Victor  Hugo       .         . 

26 

'  A  Love  Episode  ' 

Emile  Zola 

145 

'  Robert       Louis 

Stevenson,  and 

Other  Poems  ' 

Richard  le  Gallienne  . 

37 

'  The  Sentimental 

Traveller  ' 

Laurence  Sterne 

114 

'  A  Provence  Rose  ' 

Ouida 

30 

'  Poems  '      . 

Paul  Verlaine  . 

163 

'  J  acques    Bon- 

homme  '  . 

Max  O'Rell 

118 

'  The  Sentimental 

Traveller  ' 

Laurence  Sterne 

137 

'  Obermann  ' 

Etienne  Pivert  de  Sen- 

ancour  . 

56 

'  Les  Miserables  ' 

Victor  Hugo 

199 

.        .        ■ 

G.  J.  Trares      . 

55 

'  Poems '     . 

S.  L.  Fairfield  . 

268 

'  Outre-mer  ' 

Henry    Wadsworih 

Longfellow     . 

270 

'  Poetical  Works ' 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti 

77 

•  The  Rowley  Let- 

ters from  France 

and  Italy  ' 

Anthony  Rowley 

224 

'  The  Fudge  Family 

in  Paris '  . 

Thomas  Moore  . 

128 

'  One       Hundred 

Days  in  Europe  ' 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  109 

'The  French  Re- 

volution '. 

Thomas  Carlyle . 

210 

•  Poems '     . 

Sir  Walter  Scott 

265 

'  Historical  Studies' 

Herman  Merivale 

367 

'  Life  of  Scott '  . 

J.  G.  Lockhart  . 

393 

Quarterly  Review, 

No.  loS 

Anon. 

124 

'  Paris     of       the 

Katie  Winifred  Mac- 

Parisians ' 

donald 

219 

'  Les  Miserables '. 

Victor  Hugo 

217 

TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


405 


TITLE 

Spring    in    the    Students 
Quarter 

St.  Eticnne  du  Mont . 

Suburban  Paris  :  An  Idyl 

The   Artist    of    the    Pay; 

Latin 
'  The  Autocrat '  on  Paris 

The    Ballad    of    Bouilla- 
baisse 
The  Bastille 
The  Bois  de  Boulogne 

The  Boulevard 

The  Boulevard  :  Noon 

The  Cafe  . 

The    Cathedral    of    Notre 

Dame     . 
The  Concierge  . 

ThcFfitcsof  July 

The  Greatness  of  Paris 

The  Grisette 

The  Limbos  of  Paris 
The  Louvre 

The  Lure  of  France 
The  Madeleine  . 

The  Notary 

The  Oily  Real  Paris 

The  Origin  of  Paris    . 

The  Paris  of  John  Evel^-n 
The    Staircase    of    Notre 

Dame,  Paris  . 
The  Streets  of  Paris  :  their 

Infinite  Past   . 
The  Stiirit  of  P.vis 
The  Temple 

The  Tuilcrics     . 

The  TOHcries,  1789 

The  Tuileries :  Its  Mag 
nificcncc  and  its  Last 
Days 


SOURCE   or  EXTRACT 
'  Ballads        and 
L>Tics    of    Old 
France  '   . 
'  The  Autocrat  of 
the    Breakfast- 
Table  ■     . 
'  The  Mysteries  of 
Paris ' 

'  The  Paris  Sketch- 

Book" 
'  The  Autocrat  of 

the    Drcakfast- 

tablc ' 
'Ballads'    . 

'  The  Task " 

'  The     Innocents 

Abroad    '. 
'  The  Life  of  Paris  ' 
'  Paris,  1815  ' 
Oxeuford's  '  Book 

of  French  Songs ' 

■  Notre  Dame  '    . 

'  At      Home     in 
Paris  ' 

'  The  Paris  Sketch- 
Book  • 

'  Coryafs    Crudi- 
ties ' 

'  The  Mysteries  of 
Paris  ' 

'  Les  Mis6rables ' 

'  Coryat's    Crudi- 
ties ' 

'  The  Prelude  '    . 

'  The  French  and 
Italian  Note- 
Books  '     . 

'  Pictures  of   the 
French  '  . 

'  The    Enchanted 
Woods '    . 

'  The  French  Re- 
volution '. 

'  The  Diary  ' 


Andrew  Lang 


169 


Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  250 
Eugene  Sue  .  •  2S3 
Waiiam     Makepeace 


Thackeray 


181 


Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  54 
William     Makepeace 

Thackeray      .        .  i73 

William  Cou'per        .  248 

Mark  Twain  .  .  264 
Richard  Whileing  .  fg 
George  Croly      .        .72 

M.  Desaugiers  .        .120 

Victor  Hugo      .        .    233 

W.Bla  nchard  Jerrold     195 
William     Makepeace 
Thackeray     .        .221 

Thomas  Coryai .        .      38 

Eugene  Sue  .  .  189 
Victor  Hugo      .        .      88 

Thomas  Cory  at .  .261 
William  Wordsworth       20 


Nathaniel  Hauthorne    259 
Honori  de  Balzac      .     192 


Vernon  Lee 

Thomas  Carlylt 
John  Evelyn 


Poetical  Works  '        Danle  Gabriel  Rossetii    239 


'  Paris  ' 

'  Paris  ' 

'  The  Mysteries  of 
Paris  ' 

'  Coryat's  Crudi- 
ties ' 

'  The  French  Re- 
volution ■ 

'The  Court  of  the 
Tuileries,  1852- 
1870  ■ 


Hilaire  Bclloc    . 
Hilaire  Dclloc    . 

Eugene  Sue 

Thomas  Coryai  . 

Thomas  Carlyle . 


338 
356 


81 
3 

274 
251 

319 


L$  Petit  Homm*  Rouge  253 


4o6 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


The    Uncommercial    Tra- 
veller in  Paris        . 
To  a  Republican  Friend    . 

Vendrcdi  Saint .        .        . 

Walks  in  Psiris  .        .        . 


SOURCE    OF    EXTRACT 

'  The  Uncommer- 
cial Traveller  ' 
'  Poems  ' 


Random    Ram- 
bles ' 


Charles  Dickens 
Matthew  Arnold 


'  Poetical  Works  '        Sir  Lewis  Morris 


1 06 
112 


Louise  Chandler  Moul- 
ton         .         .         .       41 


Youth  Entering  Paris        .        '  Ishmael '  .        .        M.  E.  Braddon  . 
Vouth  Seeking  Fortune  in 
Paris     .        .        .        .        '  Ishmael '  .        •        M.E.  Braddon . 


159 


THE   END 


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